MARE  NOSTRUM 


MARE  NOSTRUM 

(OUR  SEA) 


BY 

VICENTE  BLASCO  IBANEZ 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  FOUR  HORSEMEN  OF  THE  APOCALYPSE,** 

"THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  CATHEDRAL,"  "BLOOD 

AND  SAND,"  "LA  BODEGA,"  ETC. 

AUTHORIZED  TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  SPANISH  BY 
CHARLOTTE  BREWSTER  JORDAN 

TRANSLATOR   OF   "THE    FOUR   HORSEMEN    OF  THE   APOCALYPSE 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  fir  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1919, 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Firtt  printing Augutt,  1919 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT i 

II  MATER  AMPHITRITE 23 

III  PATER  OCEANUS 58 

IV  FREYA 88 

V  THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES 154 

VI  THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE .  191 

VII  THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES 244 

VIII  THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS 304 

IX  THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      .     .     .  328 

X  IN  BARCELONA 377 

XI  "FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"  .     .     .  427 

XII  AMPHITRITE t  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!    ....  478 


826937 


MARE  NOSTRUM 


MARE  NOSTRUM 

CHAPTER  I 

CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT 

His  first  gallantries  were  with  an  empress.  He  was 
ten  years  old,  and  the  empress  six  hundred. 

His  father,  Don  Esteban  Ferragut — third  quota  of  the 
College  of  Notaries — had  always  had  a  great  admiration 
for  the  things  of  the  past.  He  lived  near  the  cathedral, 
and  on  Sundays  and  holy  days,  instead  of  following 
the  faithful  to  witness  the  pompous  ceremonials  pre- 
sided over  by  the  cardinal-archbishop,  used  to  betake 
himself  with  his  wife  and  son  to  hear  mass  in  San  Juan 
del  Hospital, — a  little  church  sparsely  attended  the  rest 
of  the  week. 

The  notary,  who  had  read  Walter  Scott  in  his  youth, 
used  to  gaze  on  the  old  and  turreted  walls  surrounding 
the  church,  and  feel  something  of  the  bard's  thrills  about 
his  own,  his  native  land.  The  Middle  Ages  was  the  pe- 
riod in  which  he  would  have  liked  to  have  lived.  And 
as  he  trod  the  flagging  of  the  Hospitalarws,  good  Don 
Esteban,  little,  chubby,  and  near-sighted,  used  to  feel 
within  him  the  soul  of  a  hero  born  too  late.  The  other 
churches,  huge  and  rich,  appeared  to  him  with  their 
blaze  of  gleaming  gold,  their  alabaster  convolutions  and 
their  jasper  columns,  mere  monuments  of  insipid  vul- 
garity. This  one  had  been  erected  by  the  Knights  of 

i 


2       •     .  •      MARE  NOSTRUM 

Saint  John,  who,  united  with  the  Templars,  had  aided 
King  James  in  the  conquest  of  Valencia. 

Upon  crossing  the  covered  passageway  leading  from 
the  street  to  the  inner  court,  he  was  accustomed  to  salute 
the  Virgin  of  the  Conquest,  an  image  of  rough  stone  in 
faded  colors  and  dull  gold,  seated  on  a  bench,  brought 
thither  by  the  knights  of  the  military  order.  Some  sour 
orange  trees  spread  their  branching  verdure  over  the 
walls  of  the  church, — a  blackened,  rough  stone  edifice 
perforated  with  long,  narrow,  window-like  niches  now 
closed  with  mud  plaster.  From  the  salient  buttresses 
of  its  reinforcements  jutted  forth,  in  the  highest  parts, 
great  fabled  monsters  of  weather-beaten,  crumbling 
stone. 

In  its  only  nave  was  now  left  very  little  of  this  roman^ 
tic  exterior.  The  baroque  taste  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury had  hidden  the  Gothic  arch  under  another  semi- 
circular one,  besides  covering  the  walls  with  a  coat  of 
whitewash.  But  the  medieval  reredos,  the  nobiliary 
coats  of  arms,  and  the  tombs  of  the  Knights  of  Saint 
John  with  their  Gothic  inscriptions  still  survived  the  pro- 
fane restoration,  and  that  in  itself  was  enough  to  keep 
up  the  notary's  enthusiasm. 

Moreover  the  quality  of  the  faithful  who  attended 
its  services  had  to  be  taken  into  consideration.  They 
were  few  but  select,  always  the  same.  Some  of  them 
would  drop  into  their  places,  gouty  and  relaxed,  sup- 
ported by  an  old  servant  wearing  a  shabby  lace  mantilla 
as  though  she  were  the  housekeeper.  Others  would  re- 
main standing  during  the  service  holding  up  proudly 
their  emaciated  heads  that  presented  the  profile  of  a 
fighting  cock,  and  crossing  upon  the  breast  their  gloved 
hands, — always  in  black  wool  in  the  winter  and  in  thread 
in  the  summer  time.  Ferragut  knew  all  their  names, 
having  read  them  in  the  Trovas  of  Mosen  Febrer,  a 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT      3 

metrical  composition  in  Provengal,  about  the  warriors 
that  came  to  the  neighborhood  of  Valencia  from  Aragon, 
Catalunia,  the  South  of  France,  England  and  remote  Ger- 
many. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  mass,  the  imposing  person- 
ages would  nod  their  heads,  saluting  the  faithful  nearest 
them.  "Good  day !"  To  these,  it  was  as  if  the  sun  had 
just  arisen:  the  hours  before  did  not  count.  And  the 
notary  with  meek  voice  would  enlarge  his  response: 
"Good  day,  Sefior  Marquis !"  "Good  day,  Sefior  Baron !" 
Although  his  relations  never  went  beyond  this  salutation, 
Ferragut  used  to  feel  toward  these  noble  personages  the 
sympathy  that  the  customers  have  for  an  establishment, 
looking  upon  them  with  affectionate  eyes  for  many  years 
without  presuming  to  exchange  more  than  a  greeting  with 
them. 

His  son  Ulysses  was  exceedingly  bored  as  he  followed 
the  monotonous  incidents  of  the  chanted  mass  in  the 
darkened,  almost  deserted,  church.  The  rays  of  the  sun, 
oblique  beams  of  gold  that  filtered  in  from  above,  illumi- 
nating the  spirals  of  dust,  flies  and  moths,  made  him 
think  in  a  homesick  way  of  the  lush  green  of  the  orchard, 
the  white  spots  of  the  hamlets,  the  black  smoke  columns 
of  the  harbor  filled  with  steamships,  and  the  triple  file  of 
bluish  convexities  crowned  with  froth  that  were  dis- 
charging their  contents  with  a  sonorous  surge  upon  the 
bronze-colored  beach. 

When  the  embroidered  mantles  of  the  three  priests 
ceased  to  gleam  before  the  high  altar,  and  another  priest 
in  black  and  white  appeared  in  the  pulpit,  Ulysses  would 
turn  his  glance  toward  a  side  chapel.  The  sermon 
always  represented  for  him  a  half  hour  of  somnolence, 
peopled  with  his  own  lively  imaginings.  The  first  thing 
that  his  eyes  used  to  see  in  the  chapel  of  Santa  Barbara 
was  a  chest  nailed  to  the  wall  high  above  him,  a  sepulcher 


4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  painted  wood  with  no  other  adornment  than  the  in- 
scription :  "Aqui  yace  Dona  Constanza  Augusta,  Emper- 
atriz  de  Grecia," — Here  lies  Constance  Augusta,  Empress 
of  Greece. 

The  name  of  Greece  always  had  the  power  of  exciting 
the  little  fellow's  imagination.  His  godfather,  the  lawyer 
Labarta,  poet-laureate,  could  not  repeat  this  name  without 
a  lively  thrill  passing  across  his  grizzled  beard  and  a 
new  light  in  his  eyes.  Sometimes  the  mysterious  power 
of  such  a  name  evoked  a  new  mystery  and  a  more  in- 
tense interest, — Byzantium.  How  could  that  august  lady, 
sovereign  of  remote  countries  of  magnificence  and  vision, 
have  come  to  leave  her  remains  in  a  murky  chapel  of  Va- 
lencia within  a  great  chest  like  those  that  treasured  the 
remnants  of  old  trumpery  in  the  garrets  of  the  no- 
tary? .  .  . 

One  day  after  mass  Don  Esteban  had  rapidly  recounted 
her  history  to  his  little  son.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Frederick  the  Second  of  Suabia,  a  Hohenstaufen,  an 
emperor  of  Germany  who  esteemed  still  more  his  crown 
of  Sicily.  In  the  palaces  of  Palermo, — veritable  en- 
chanted bowers  of  Oriental  gardens, — he  had  led  the  life 
both  of  pagan  and  savant,  surrounded  by  poets  and  men 
of  science  (Jews,  Mahometans  and  Christians),  by  Ori- 
ental dancers,  alchemists,  and  ferocious  Saracen  Guards. 
He  legislated  as  did  the  jurisconsults  of  ancient  Rome, 
at  the  same  time  writing  the  first  verses  in  Italian.  His 
life  was  one  continual  combat  with  the  Popes  who  hurled 
upon  him  excommunication  upon  excommunication.  For 
the  sake  of  peace  he  had  become  a  crusader  and  set  forth 
upon  the  conquest  of  Jerusalem.  But  Saladin,  another 
philosopher  of  the  same  class,  had  soon  come  to  an 
agreement  with  his  Christian  colleague.  The  position  of 
a  little  city  surrounded  with  untilled  land  and  an  empty 
sepulcher  was  really  not  worth  the  trouble  of  decapitating 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT      5 

mankind  through  the  centuries.  The  Saracen  monarch, 
therefore,  graciously  delivered  Jerusalem  over  to  him, 
and  the  Pope  again  excommunicated  Frederick  for  having 
conquered  the  Holy  Land  without  bloodshed. 

"He  was  a  great  man,"  Don  Esteban  used  to  murmur. 
"It  must  be  admitted  that  he  was  a  great  man.  .  .  ." 

He  would  say  this  timidly,  regretting  that  his  enthusi- 
asm for  that  remote  epoch  should  oblige  him  to  make 
this  concession  to  an  enemy  of  the  Church.  He  shud- 
dered to  think  of  those  sacrilegious  books  that  nobody 
had  seen,  but  whose  paternity  Rome  was  accustomed  to 
attribute  to  this  Sicilian  Emperor — especially  Los  Tres 
Impostores  (The  Three  Imposters),  in  which  Frederick 
measured  Moses,  Jesus  and  Mahomet,  by  the  same 
standard.  This  royal  author  was,  moreover,  the  most 
ancient  journalist  of  history,  the  first  that  in  the  full 
thirteenth  century  had  dared  to  appeal  to  the  judgment 
of  public  opinion  in  his  manifestoes  against  Rome. 

His  daughter  had  married  an  Emperor  of  Byzantium, 
Juan  Dukas  Vatatzes,  the  famous  "Vatacio,"  when  he  was 
fifty  and  she  fourteen.  She  was  a  natural  daughter  soon 
legitimized  like  almost  all  his  progeny, — a  product  of  his 
free  harem,  in  which  were  mingled  Saracen  beauties  and 
Italian  marchionesses.  And  the  poor  young  girl  married 
to  "Vatacio  the  heretic/'  by  a  father  in  need  of  political 
alliances  had  lived  long  years  in  the  Orient  as  a  basilisa 
or  empress,  arrayed  in  garments  of  stiff  embroidery  rep- 
resenting scenes  from  the  holy  books,  shod  with  buskins 
laced  with  purple  which  bore  on  their  soles  eagles  of  gold, 
— the  highest  symbol  of  the  majesty  of  Rome. 

At  first  she  had  reigned  in  Nicsea,  refuge  of  the  Greek 
Emperors  while  Constantinople  was  in  the  power  of  the 
Crusaders,  founders  of  a  Latin  dynasty;  then,  when 
Vatacio  died,  the  audacious  Miguel  Paleologo  recon- 
quered Constantinople,  and  the  imperial  widow  found 


6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

herself  courted  by  this  victorious  adventurer.  For  many 
years  she  resisted  his  pretensions,  finally  maneuvering 
that  her  brother  Manfred  should  return  her  to  her  own 
country,  where  she  arrived  just  in  time  to  receive  news 
of  her  brother's  death  in  battle,  and  to  follow  the  flight 
of  her  sister-in-law  and  nephews.  They  all  took  refuge 
in  a  castle  defended  by  Saracens  in  the  service  of  Fred- 
erick, the  only  ones  faithful  to  his  memory. 

The  castle  fell  into  the  power  of  the  warriors  of  the 
Church,  and  Manfred's  wife  was  conducted  to  a  prison 
where  her  life  was  shortly  after  extinguished.  Obscur- 
ity swallowed  up  the  last  remnants  of  the  family  accursed 
by  Rome.  Death  was  always  hovering  around  the  basil- 
isa.  They  all  perished — her  brother  Manfred,  her  half- 
brother,  the  poetic  and  lamented  Encio,  hero  of  so  many 
songs,  and  her  nephew,  the  knightly  Coradino,  who  was 
to  die  later  on  under  the  axe  of  the  executioner  upon  at- 
tempting the  defense  of  his  rights.  As  the  Oriental  em- 
press did  not  represent  any  danger  for  the  d^-nasty  of 
Anjou,  the  conquerer  let  her  follow  out  her  destiny,  as 
lonely  and  forsaken  as  a  Shakesperian  Princess. 

As  the  widow  of  the  late  Emperor  she  was  supposed  to 
have  a  rental  of  three  thousand  besantes  of  fine  gold.  But 
this  remote  rental  never  arrived,  and  almost  as  a  pauper 
she  embarked  with  her  niece,  Constanza,  in  a  ship  going 
toward  the  perfumed  shores  of  the  Gulf  of  Valencia, 
where  she  entered  the  convent  of  Santa  Barbara.  In  the 
poverty  of  this  recently  founded  convent,  the  poor  Em- 
press lived  until  the  following  century,  recalling  the  ad- 
ventures of  her  melancholy  destiny  and  seeing  in  imagina- 
tion the  palace  of  golden  mosaics  on  Lake  Nicaea,  the  gar- 
dens where  "Vatacio"  had  wished  to  die  under  a  purple 
tent,  the  gigantic  walls  of  Constantinople,  and  the  arches 
of  Saint  Sophia,  with  its  hieratic  galaxies  of  saints  and 
crowned  monarchs. 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT      7 

From  all  her  journeys  and  glittering  fortunes  she  had 
preserved  but  one  thing — a  stone — the  sole  baggage  that 
accompanied  her  upon  disembarking  on  the  shore  of  Va- 
lencia. It  was  a  fragment  from  Nicodemia  that  had  mi- 
raculously sent  forth  water  for  the  baptism  of  Santa  Bar- 
bara. 

The  notary  used  to  point  out  this  rough,  sacred  stone 
inlaid  in  a  baptismal  font  of  Holy  Water.  Without  ceas- 
ing to  admire  these  historic  bits  of  knowledge,  Ulysses, 
Nevertheless,  used  to  receive  them  with  a  certain  ingrati- 
tude. 

"My  godfather  could  explain  things  to  me  in  a  better 
"way.  .  .  .  My  godfather  knows  more." 

When  surveying  the  chapel  of  Santa  Barbara  during 
the  Mass,  he  used  always  to  turn  his  eyes  away  from  the 
funeral  chest.  The  thought  of  those  bones  turned  to 
dust  filled  him  with  repugnance.  That  Doiia  Constanza 
did  not  exist  for  him.  The  one  who  was  interesting  to 
him  was  the  other  one,  a  little  further  on  who  was 
painted  in  a  small  picture.  Dona  Constanza  had  had 
leprosy — an  infirmity  that  in  those  days  was  not 
permitted  to  Empresses — so  Santa  Barbara  had  miracu- 
lously cured  her  devotee.  In  order  to  perpetuate  this 
event,  Santa  Barbara  was  depicted  on  the  canvas  as  a 
lady  dressed  in  a  full  skirt  and  slashed  sleeves,  and  at 
her  feet  was  the  basilisa  in  the  dress  of  a  Valencian  peas- 
ant arrayed  in  great  jewels.  In  vain  Don  Esteban  af- 
firmed that  this  picture  had  been  painted  centuries  after 
the  death  of  the  Empress.  The  child's  imagination  vaulted 
disdainfully  over  such  difficulties.  Just  as  she  appeared 
on  the  canvas,  Dona  Constanza  must  have  been — flaxen- 
haired,  with  great  black  eyes,  exceedingly  handsome  and 
a  little  inclined  to  stoutness,  perhaps,  as  was  becoming 
to  a  woman  accustomed  to  trailing  robes  of  state  and 


8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

who  had  consented  to  disguise  herself  as  a  country- 
woman, merely  because  of  her  piety. 

The  image  of  the  Empress  obsessed  his  childish 
thoughts.  At  night  when  he  felt  afraid  in  bed,  im- 
pressed by  the  enormousness  of  the  room  that  served 
as  his  sleeping  chamber,  it  was  enough  for  him  to  recall 
the  sovereign  of  Byzantium  to  make  him  forget  imme- 
diately his  disquietude  and  the  thousand  queer  noises  in 
the  old  building.  "Dona  Constanza!"  .  .  .  And  he 
would  go  off  to  sleep  cuddling  the  pillow,  as  though  it 
were  the  head  of  the  basilisa,  his  closed  eyes  continuing 
to  see  the  black  eyes  of  the  regal  Senora,  maternal  and 
affectionate. 

All  womankind,  on  coming  near  him,  took  on  some- 
thing of  that  other  one  who  had  been  sleeping  for  the 
past  six  centuries  in  the  upper  part  of  the  chapel  wall. 
When  his  mother,  sweet  and  pallid  Dona  Cristina, 
would  stop  her  fancy  work  for  an  instant  to  give  him  a 
kiss,  he  always  saw  in  her  smile  something  of  the  Em- 
press. When  Visenteta,  a  maid  from  the  country — a 
brunette,  with  eyes  like  blackberries,  rosy-cheeked  and 
soft-skinned — would  help  him  to  undress,  or  awaken 
him  to  take  him  to  school,  Ulysses  would  always  throw 
his  arms  around  her  as  though  enchanted  by  the  perfume 
of  her  vigorous  and  chaste  vitality.  "Visenteta !  .  .  .  Oh, 
Visenteta!  .  .  ."  And  he  was  thinking  of  Dona  Con- 
stanza;  Empresses  must  be  just  that  fragrant.  .  .  . 
Just  like  that  must  be  the  texture  of  their  skin!  .  .  . 
And  mysterious  and  incomprehensible  thrills  would  pass 
over  his  body  like  light  exhalations,  bubbling  up  from 
the  slime  that  is  sleeping  in  the  depths  of  all  infancy 
and  coming  to  the  surface  during  adolescence. 

His  father  guessed  in  part  this  imaginary  life  upon 
seeing  his  pet  plays  and  readings. 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT      9 

"Ah,  comedian!  .  .  .  Ah,  play-actor!  .  .  .  you  are 
like  your  godfather." 

He  used  to  say  this  with  an  ambiguous  smile  in  which 
were  equally  mingled  his  contempt  for  useless  idealism 
and  his  respect  for  the  artist — a  respect  similar  to  the 
veneration  that  the  Arabs  feel  for  the  demented,  believ- 
ing their  insanity  to  be  a  gift  from  God. 

Dona  Cristina  was  very  anxious  that  this  only  son,  as 
spoiled  and  coddled  as  though  he  were  a  Crown  Prince, 
should  become  a  priest.  To  see  him  intone  his  first  Mass ! 
..  .  .  Then  a  canon ;  then  a  prelate !  Who  knew  if  per- 
haps when  she  was  no  longer  living,  other  women  might 
not  admire  him  when  preceded  by  a  cross  of  gold,  trail- 
ing the  red  state  robe  of  a  cardinal-archbishop,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  robed  staff — envying  the  mother  who  had 
given  birth  to  this  ecclesiastical  magnate!  .  .  . 

In  order  to  guide  the  inclinations  of  her  son  she  had 
installed  a  chapel  in  one  of  the  empty  rooms  of  the  great 
old  house.  Ulysses'  school  companions  on  free  after- 
noons would  hasten  thither,  doubly  attracted  by  the  en- 
chantment of  "playing  priest"  and  by  the  generous  re- 
freshment that  Dona  Cristina  used  to  prepare  for  all 
the  parish  clergy. 

This  solemnity  would  begin  with  the  furious  pealing 
of  some  bells  hanging  over  the  parlor  door,  causing  the 
notary's  clients,  seated  in  the  vestibule  waiting  for  the 
papers  that  the  clerks  were  just  scribbling  off  at  full 
speed,  to  raise  their  heads  in  astonishment.  The  metallic 
uproar  rocked  the  edifice  whose  corners  had  seemed  so 
full  of  silence,  and  even  disturbed  the  calm  of  the  street 
through  which  a  carriage  only  occasionally  passed. 

While  some  of  his  chums  were  lighting  the  candles  on 
the  shrines  and  unfolding  the  sacred  altar  cloths  of  beau- 
tiful lace  work  made  by  Dona  Cristina,  the  son  and  his 
more  intimate  friends  were  arraying  themselves  before 


io  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  faithful,  covering  themselves  with  surplices  and  gold- 
worked  vestments  and  putting  wonderful  caps  on  their 
heads.  The  mother,  who  was  peeping  from  behind  one 
of  the  doors,  had  to  make  a  great  effort  not  to  rush  in 
and  devour  Ulysses  with  kisses.  With  what  grace  he  was 
imitating  the  mannerisms  and  genuflections  of  the  chief 
priest!  .  .  . 

Up  to  this  point  all  went  perfectly.  The  three  officiat- 
ing near  the  pyramid  of  lights  were  singing  at  the  top  of 
their  lungs,  and  the  chorus  of  the  faithful  were  respond- 
ing from  the  end  of  the  room  with  tremors  of  impatience. 
Suddenly  surged  forth  Protest,  Schism  and  Heresy. 
Those  at  the  altar  had  already  done  more  than  enough. 
They  must  now  give  up  their  chasubles  to  those  who  were 
looking  on  in  order  that  they,  in  their  turn,  might  exer- 
cise the  sacred  ministry.  That  was  what  they  had  agreed 
upon.  But  the  clergy  resisted  with  the  haughtiness  and 
majesty  of  acquired  right,  and  impious  hands  began  pull- 
ing off  the  garb  of  the  saints,  profaning  them  and  even 
tearing  them.  Yells,  kicks,  images  and  wax  candles  on 
the  floor!  .  .  .  Scandal  and  abominations  as  though  the 
Anti-Christ  were  already  born!  .  .  .  The  prudence  of 
Ulysses  put  an  end  to  the  struggle :  "What  if  we  should 
go  up  in  the  porche  to  play  ?  .  .  ." 

The  p ore he  was  the  immense  garret  of  the  great  old 
house,  so  all  accepted  the  plan  with  enthusiasm.  Church 
was  over !  And  like  a  flock  of  birds  they  went  flying  up 
the  stairs  over  the  landings  of  multi-colored  tiles  with 
their  chipped  glaze,  disclosing  the  red  brick  underneath. 
The  Valencian  potters  of  the  eighteenth  century  had 
adorned  these  tiles  with  Berber  and  Christian  galleys, 
birds  from  nearby  Albufera,  white-wigged  hunters  offer- 
ing flowers  to  a  peasant  girl,  fruits  of  all  kinds,  and  spir- 
ited horsemen  on  steeds  that  were  half  the  size  of  their 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT     n 

bodies  parading  before  houses  and  trees  that  scarcely 
reached  to  the  knees  of  their  prancing  coursers. 

The  noisy  group  spread  themselves  over  the  upper 
floor  a.s  in  the  most  terrible  invasions  of  history.  Cats 
and  mice  fled  together  to  the  far-away  corners.  The  ter- 
rified birds  sped  like  arrows  through  the  skylights  of  the 
roof. 

The  poor  notary !  .  .  .  He  had  never  returned  empty- 
handed  when  called  outside  of  the  city  by  the  confidence 
of  the  rich  farmers,  incapable  of  believing  in  any  other 
legal  science  than  his.  That  was  the  time  when  the  an- 
tique dealers  had  not  yet  discovered  rich  Valencia,  where 
the  common  people  dressed  in  silks  for  centuries,  and 
furniture,  clothing  and  pottery  seemed  always  to  be  im- 
pregnated with  the  light  of  steady  sunshine  and  with  the 
blue  of  an  always  clear  atmosphere. 

Don  Esteban,  who  believed  himself  obliged  to  be  an 
antiquarian  by  virtue  of  his  membership  in  various  local 
societies,  was  continually  filling  up  his  house  with  me- 
mentoes of  the  past  picked  up  in  the  villages,  or  that 
his  clients  freely  gave  him.  He  was  not  able  to  find  wall 
space  enough  for  the  pictures,  nor  room  in  his  salons 
for  the  furniture.  Therefore,  the  latest  acquisitions  were 
provisionally  taking  their  way  to  the  porche  to  await 
definite  installation.  Years  afterward,  when  he  should 
retire  from  his  profession,  he  might  be  able  to  construct 
a  medieval  castle — the  most  medieval  possible  on  the 
coasts  of  the  Marina;  near  to  the  village  where  he  had 
been  born,  he  would  put  each  object  in  a  place  appro- 
priate to  its  importance. 

Whatever  the  notary  deposited  in  the  rooms  of  the  first 
floor  would  soon  make  its  appearance  in  the  garret  as 
mysteriously  as  though  it  had  acquired  feet;  for  Dona 
Cristina  and  her  servants,  obliged  to  live  in  a  continual 
struggle  with  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  an  edifice  that  was 


12  MARE  NOSTRUM 

slowly  dropping  to  pieces,  were  beginning  to  feel  a  fero- 
cious hatred  of  everything  old. 

Up  here  on  the  top  floor,  discords  and  battles  because 
of  lack  of  things  to  dress  up  in,  were  not  possible  among 
the  boys.  They  had  only  to  sink  their  hands  into  any 
one  of  the  great  old  chests,  pulsing  with  the  dull  gnawing 
of  the  wood-borers,  whose  iron  fretwork,  pierced  like 
lace,  was  dropping  away  from  its  supports.  Some  of  the 
youngsters,  brandishing  short,  small  swords  with  hilts  of 
mother-of-pearl,  or  long  blades  such  as  the  Cid  carried, 
would  then  wrap  themselves  in  mantles  of  crimson  silk 
darkened  by  ages.  Others  would  throw  over  their  shoul- 
ders damask  counterpanes  of  priceless  old  brocade,  peas- 
ant skirts  with  great  flowers  of  gold,  farthingales  of  rich- 
ly woven  texture  that  crackled  like  paper. 

When  they  grew  tired  of  imitating  comedians  with 
noisy  clashing  of  spades  and  death-blows,  Ulysses  and 
the  other  active  lads  would  propose  the  game  of  "Bandits 
and  Bailiffs."  But  thieves  could  not  go  clad  in  such  rich 
cloths;  their  attire  ought  to  be  inconspicuous.  And  so 
they  overturned  some  mountains  of  dull-colored  stuffs 
that  appeared  like  mere  sacking  in  whose  dull  woven 
designs  could  be  dimly  discerned  legs,  arms,  heads,  and 
branching  sprays  of  metallic  green. 

Don  Esteban  had  found  these  fragments  already  torn 
by  the  farmers  into  covers  for  their  large  earthen  jars  of 
oil  or  into  blankets  for  the  work-mules.  They  were  bits 
of  tapestry  copied  from  cartoons  of  Titian  and  Rubens 
which  the  notary  was  keeping  only  out  of  historic  re- 
spect. Tapestry  then,  like  all  things  that  are  plentiful, 
had  no  special  merit.  The  old-clothes  dealers  of  Valencia 
had  in  their  storehouses  dozens  of  the  same  kind  of  rem- 
nants and  when  the  festival  of  Corpus  Christi  ap- 
proached they  used  them  to  cover  the  natural  barricades 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT  13 

formed  by  the  ground,  instead  of  building  new  ones  in 
the  street  followed  by  the  processions. 

At  other  times,  Ulysses  repeated  the  same  game  under 
the  name  of  "Indians  and  Conquerors."  He  had  found 
in  the  mountains  of  books  stored  away  by  his  father,  a 
volume  that  related  in  double  columns,  with  abundant 
wood  cuts,  the  navigations  of  Columbus,  the  wars  of 
Hernando  Cortez,  and  the  exploits  of  Pizarro. 

This  book  cast  a  glamor  over  the  rest  of  his  existence. 
Many  times  afterwards,  when  a  man,  he  found  this  image 
latent  in  the  background  of  his  likes  and  desires.  He 
really  had  read  few  of  its  paragraphs,  but  what  interested 
him  most  were  the  engravings — in  his  estimation  more 
worthy  of  admiration  than  all  the  pictures  in  the  garret. 

With  the  point  of  his  long  sword  he  would  trace  on  the 
ground,  just  as  Pizarro  had  done  before  his  discouraged 
companions,  ready  on  the  Island  of  Gallo  to  desist  from 
the  conquest:  "Let  every  good  Castilian  pass  this  line. 
.  .  ."  And  the  good  Castilians — a  dozen  little  scamps 
with  long  capes  and  ancient  swords  whose  hilts  reached 
up  to  their  mouths — would  hasten  to  group  themselves 
around  their  chief,  who  was  imitating  the  heroic  gestures 
of  the  conqueror.  Then  was  heard  the  war-cry:  "At 
them!  Down  with  the  Indians!" 

It  was  agreed  that  the  Indians  should  flee  and  on  that 
account  they  were  modestly  clad  in  scraps  of  tapestry 
and  cock  feathers  on  their  head.  But  they  fled  treacher- 
ously, and  upon  finding  themselves  upon  varguenos,  tables 
and  pyramids  of  chairs,  they  began  to  shy  books  at  their 
persecutors.  Venerable  leather  volumes  decorated  with 
dull  gold,  and  folios  of  white  parchment  fell  face  down- 
ward on  the  floor,  their  fastenings  breaking  apart  and 
spreading  abroad  a  rain  of  printed,  or  manuscript  pages 
and  yellowing  engravings — as  though  tired  of  living,  they 
were  letting  their  life-blood  flow  from  their  bodies. 


i4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  uproar  of  these  wars  of  conquest  brought  Dona 
Cristina  to  the  rescue.  She  no  longer  cared  to  harbor 
little  imps  who  preferred  the  adventurous  whoops  of  the 
garret  to  the  mystic  delights  of  the  abandoned  chapel 
The  Indians  were  most  worthy  of  execration.  In  order 
to  make  splendor  of  attire  counterbalance  the  humility  of 
their  role,  they  had  slashed  their  sinful  scissors  into  en- 
tire tapestries,  mutilating  vestments  so  as  to  arrange  upon 
their  breasts  the  head  of  a  hero  or  goddess. 

Finding  himself  without  playfellows,  Ulysses  discov- 
ered a  new  enchantment  in  the  garret  life.  The  silence 
haunted  by  the  creaking  of  wood  and  the  scampering  of 
invisible  animals,  the  inexplicable  fall  of  a  picture  or  of 
some  piled-up  books,  used  to  make  him  thrill  with  a  sen- 
sation of  fear  and  nocturnal  mystery,  despite  the  rays  of 
sunlight  that  came  filtering  in  through  the  skylights ;  but 
he  began  to  enjoy  this  solitude  when  he  found  that  he 
could  people  it  to  his  fancy.  Real  beings  soon  annoyed 
him  like  the  inopportune  sounds  that  sometimes  awoke 
him  from  beautiful  dreams.  The  garret  was  a  world  sev- 
eral centuries  old  that  now  belonged  entirely  to  him  and 
adjusted  itself  to  all  his  fancies. 

Seated  in  a  trunk  without  a  lid,  he  made  it  balance  it- 
self, imitating  with  his  mouth  the  roarings  of  the  tempest. 
It  was  a  caravel,  a  galleon,  a  ship  such  as  he  had  seen  in 
the  old  books,  its  sails  painted  with  lions  and  crucifixes,  a 
castle  on  the  poop  and  a  figure-head  carved  on  the  prow 
that  dipped  down  into  the  waves,  only  to  reappear  drip- 
ping with  foam. 

The  trunk,  by  dint  of  vigorous  pushing,  could  be  made 
to  reach  the  rugged  coast  at  the  corner  of  the  old  chest, 
the  triangular  gulf  made  of  two  chests  of  drawers,  and 
the  smooth  beach  formed  by  some  bundles  of  clothes.  And 
the  navigator,  followed  by  a  crew  as  numerous  as  it  was 
imaginary,  would  leap  ashore,  sword  in  hand,  scaling 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT  15 

some  mountains  of  books  that  were  the  Andes,  and  pierc- 
ing various  volumes  with  the  tip  of  an  old  lance  in  order 
to  plant  his  standard  there.  Oh,  why  had  he  not  been  one 
of  the  conquerors  ?  .  .  . 

Fragments  of  a  conversation  between  his  god- 
father and  his  father,  who  believed  everything  was  al- 
ready known  regarding  the  surface  of  the  earth,  left  him 
unconvinced.  Something  must  still  be  left  for  him  to 
discover !  He  was  the  meeting  point  of  two  families  of 
sailors.  His  mother's  brothers  had  ships  on  the  coast 
of  Catalunia.  His  father's  ancestors  had  been  valorous 
and  obscure  navigators,  and  there  in  the  Marina  was 
his  uncle,  the  doctor,  a  genuine  man  of  the  sea. 

When  he  grew  tired  of  these  imaginative  orgies,  he 
used  to  examine  the  portraits  of  different  epochs  stowed 
away  in  the  garret.  He  preferred  those  of  the  women — 
noble  dames  with  short-cropped,  curled  hair  bound  by  a 
knot  of  ribbon  on  the  temple,  like  those  that  Velazquez 
loved  to  paint,  and  long  faces  of  the  century  following, 
with  cherry-colored  mouth,  two  patches  on  the  cheeks, 
and  a  tower  of  white  hair.  The  memory  of  the  Grecian 
basilisa  appeared  to  emanate  from  these  paintings.  All 
the  high-born  dames  seemed  to  have  something  in  com- 
mon with  her. 

Among  the  portraits  of  the  men  there  was  one  of  a 
bishop  that  irritated  him  by  its  absurd  childishness.  He 
appeared  almost  his  own  age,  an  adolescent  bishop,  with 
imperious  and  aggressive  eyes.  These  eyes  used  to  in- 
spire the  sensitive  lad  with  a  certain  terror,  and  he 
therefore  decided  to  have  done  with  them.  "Take  that!" 
and  he  ran  his  sword  through  the  old  chipped  picture, 
making  two  gashes  replace  the  challenging  eyes.  Then 
he  added  a  few  gashes  more  for  good  measure.  .  .  . 
That  same  evening,  his  godfather  having  been  invited  to 
supper,  the  notary  spoke  of  a  certain  portrait  acquired  a 


16  MARE  NOSTRUM 

few  months  before  in  the  neighborhood  of  Jativa,  a  city 
that  he  had  always  regarded  with  interest  on  account  of 
the  Borgias  having  been  born  in  one  of  its  suburbs.  The 
two  men  were  of  the  same  opinion.  That  almost  infantile 
prelate  could  have  been  no  other  than  Csesar  Borgia, 
made  Archbishop  of  Valencia  when  sixteen  years  old  by 
his  father,  the  Pope.  On  their  first  free  day  they  would 
examine  the  portrait  with  particular  attention.  .  .  .  And 
Ulysses,  hanging  his  head,  felt  every  mouthful  sticking  in 
his  throat. 

For  the  fanciful  lad,  a  pleasure  even  more  intense  and 
substantial  than  his  lonely  games  in  the  garret  was  a  visit 
to  his  godfather's  home ;  to  his  childish  eyes,  this  godpar- 
ent, the  lawyer,  Don  Carmelo  Labarta,  was  the  personi- 
fication of  the  ideal  life,  of  glory,  of  poesy.  The  notary 
was  wont  to  speak  of  him  with  enthusiasm,  yet  pitying 
him  at  the  same  time. 

"That  poor  Don  Carmelo!  .  .  .  The  leading  author- 
ity of  the  age  in  civilian  matters !  By  applying  himself 
he  might  earn  some  money,  but  verses  attracted  him 
more  than  lawsuits." 

Ulysses  used  to  enter  his  office  with  keen  emotion. 
Above  rows  of  multicolored  and  gilded  books  that  cov- 
ered the  walls,  he  saw  some  great  plaster  heads  with  tow- 
ering foreheads  and  vacant  eyes  that  seemed  always  to 
be  contemplating  an  immense  nothingness. 

The  child  could  repeat  their  names  like  a  fragment 
from  a  choir  book,  from  Homer  to  Victor  Hugo.  Then 
his  glance  would  seek  another  head  equally  glorious  al- 
though less  white,  with  blonde  and  grizzled  beard,  rubi- 
cund nose  and  bilious  cheeks  that  in  certain  moments 
scattered  bits  of  scale.  The  sweet  eyes  of  his  godfather — 
yellowish  eyes  spotted  with  black  dots — used  to  receive 
Ulysses  with  the  doting  affection  of  an  aging,  old  bache- 
lor who  needs  to  invent  a  family.  He  it  was  who  had 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT  17 

given  him  at  the  baptismal  font  the  name  which  had 
awakened  so  much  admiration  and  ridicule  among  his 
school  companions;  with  the  patience  of  an  old  grand- 
sire  narrating  saintly  stories  to  his  descendants,  he  would 
tell  Ulysses  over  and  over  the  adventures  of  the  navi- 
gating King  of  Ithaca  for  whom  he  had  been  named. 

With  no  less  devotion  did  the  lad  regard  all  the  souve- 
nirs of  glory  that  adorned  his  house — wreaths  of  golden 
leaves,  silver  cups,  nude  marble  statuettes,  placques  of 
different  metals  upon  plush  backgrounds  on  which  glis- 
tened imperishably  the  name  of  the  poet  Labarta.  All 
this  booty  the  tireless  Knight  of  Letters  had  conquered 
by  means  of  his  verse. 

When  the  Floral  Games  were  announced,  the  competi- 
tors used  to  tremble  lest  it  might  occur  to  the  great  Don 
Carmelo  to  hanker  after  some  of  the  premiums.  With 
astonishing  facility  he  used  to  carry  off  the  natural  flower 
awarded  for  the  heroic  ode,  the  cup  of  gold  for  the 
amorous  romance,  the  pair  of  statues  dedicated  to  the 
most  complete  historical  study,  the  marble  bust  for  the 
best  legend  in  prose,  and  even  the  "art  bronze"  reward  of 
philological  study.  The  other  aspirants  might  try  for  the 
left-overs. 

Fortunately  he  had  confined  himself  to  local  literature, 
and  his  inspiration  would  not  admit  any  other  drapery 
than  that  of  Valencian  verse.  Next  to  Valencia  and  its 
past  glories,  Greece  claimed  his  admiration.  Once  a  year 
Ulysses  beheld  him  arrayed  in  his  frock  coat,  his  chest 
starred  with  decorations  and  in  his  lapel  the  golden 
cicada,  badge  of  the  poets  of  Provence. 

He  it  was  who  was  going  to  be  celebrated  in  the  fiesta 
of  Provengal  literature,  in  which  he  always  played  the 
principal  role ;  he  was  the  prize  bar'd,  lecturer,  or  simple 
idol  to  whom  other  poets  were  dedicating  their  eulogies — 
clerics  given  to  rhyming,  personifiers  of  religious  images, 


18  MARE  NOSTRUM 

silk-weavers  who  felt  the  vulgarity  of  their  existence  per- 
turbed by  the  itchings  of  inspiration — all  the  brotherhood 
of  popular  bards  of  the  ingenuous  and  domestic  brand 
who  recalled  the  Meister singers  of  the  old  German  cities. 

His  godson  always  imagined  him  with  a  crown  of  laurel 
on  his  brows  just  like  those  mysterious  blind  poets  whose 
portraits  and  busts  ornamented  the  library.  In  real  life 
he  saw  perfectly  well  that  his  head  had  no  such  adorn- 
ment, but  reality  lost  its  value  before  the  firmness  of  his 
conceptions.  His  godfather  certainly  must  wear  a  wreath 
when  he  was  not  present.  Undoubtedly  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  wear  it  as  a  house  cap  when  by  himself. 

Another  thing  which  he  greatly  admired  about  the 
grand  man  was  his  extensive  travels.  He  had  lived  in 
distant  Madrid — the  scene  of  almost  all  the  novels  read 
by  Ulysses — and  once  upon  a  time  he  had  crossed  the 
frontier,  going  courageously  into  a  remote  country  called 
the  south  of  France,  in  order  to  visit  another  poet  whom 
he  was  accustomed  to  call  "My  friend,  Mistral."  And 
the  lad's  imagination,  hasty  and  illogical  in  its  decisions, 
used  to  envelop  his  godfather  in  a  halo  of  historic  in- 
terest, similar  to  that  of  the  conquerors. 

At  the  stroke  of  the  twelve  o'clock  chimes  Labarta, 
who  never  permitted  any  informality  in  table  matters, 
would  become  very  impatient,  cutting  short  the  account 
of  his  journeys  and  triumphs. 

"Doiia  Pepa !  .  .  .  We  have  a  guest  here." 

Dona  Pepa  was  the  housekeeper,  the  great  man's  com- 
panion who  for  the  past  fifteen  years  had  been  chained  to 
the  chariot  of  his  glory.  The  portieres  would  part  and 
through  them  would  advance  a  huge  bosom  protruding 
above  an  abdomen  cruelly  corseted.  Afterwards,  long 
afterwards,  would  appear  a  white  and  radiant  counte- 
nance, a  face  like  a  full  moon,  and  while  her  smile  like  a 
night  star  was  greeting  the  little  Ulysses,  the  dorsal  com- 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT     19 

plement  of  her  body  kept  on  coming  in — forty  carnal 
years,  fresh,  exuberant,  tremendous. 

The  notary  and  his  wife  always  spoke  of  Dona  Pepa 
as  of  a  familiar  person,  but  the  child  never  had  seen  her 
in  their  home.  Dona  Cristina  used  to  eulogize  her  care 
of  the  poet — but  distantly  and  with  no  desire  to  make 
her  acquaintance — while  Don  Esteban  would  make  ex- 
cuses for  the  great  man. 

"What  can  you  expect!  .  .  .  He  is  an  artist,  and 
artists  are  not  able  to  live  as  God  commands.  All  of 
them,  however  dignified  they  may  appear,  are  rather 
carnal  at  heart.  What  a  pity!  such  an  eminent  lawyer! 
.  .  .  The  money  that  he  could  make.  .  .  !" 

His  father's  lamentations  opened  up  new  horizons  to 
the  little  fellow's  suspicions.  Suddenly  he  grasped  the 
prime  motive  force  of  our  existence,  hitherto  only  con- 
jectured and  enveloped  in  mystery.  His  godfather  had 
relations  with  a  woman ;  he  was  enamored  like  the  heroes 
of  the  novels !  And  the  boy  recalled  many  of  his  Valen- 
cian  poems,  all  rhapsodizing  a  lady — sometimes  singing 
of  her  great  beauty  with  the  rapture  and  noble  lassitude 
of  a  recent  possession;  at  others  complaining  of  her  cold- 
ness, begging  of  her  that  disposition  of  her  soul  without 
which  the  gift  of  the  body  is  as  naught. 

Ulysses  imagined  to  himself  a  grand  senora  as  beautiful 
as  Dona  Constanza.  At  the  very  least,  she  must  be  a 
Marchioness.  His  godfather  certainly  deserved  that 
much !  And  he  also  imagined  to  himself  that  their  ren- 
dezvous must  be  in  the  morning,  in  one  of  the  straw- 
berry gardens  near  the  city,  where  his  parents  were  accus- 
tomed to  take  him  for  his  breakfast  chocolate  after  hear- 
ing the  first  dawn  service  on  the  Sundays  of  April  and 
May. 

Much  later,  when  seated  at  his  godfather's  table,  he 
surprised  the  poet  exchanging  glances  over  his  head  with 


20  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  housekeeper,  and  began  to  suspect  that  possibly  Dona 
Pepa  might  be  the  inspiration  of  so  much  lachrymose  and 
enthusiastic  verse.  But  his  great  loyalty  rebelled  before 
such  a  supposition.  No,  no,  it  could  not  be  possible ;  as- 
suredly there  must  be  another ! 

The  notary,  who  for  long  years  had  been  friendly  with 
Labarta,  kept  trying  to  direct  him  with  his  practical  spirit, 
like  the  boy  who  guides  a  blind  man.  A  modest  income 
inherited  from  his  parents  was  enough  for  the  poet  to 
live  upon.  In  vain  his  friend  brought  him  cases  that 
represented  enormous  fees.  The  voluminous  documents 
would  become  covered  with  dust  on  his  table  and  Don 
Esteban  would  have  to  saddle  himself  with  the  dates  in 
order  that  the  end  of  the  legal  procedures  should  not 
slip  by. 

His  son,  Ulysses  would  be  a  very  different  sort  of 
man,  thought  the  notary.  In  his  mind's  eye  he  could  see 
the  lad  as  a  great  civilian  jurist  like  his  godfather,  but 
with  a  positive  activity  inherited  from  his  father.  For- 
tune would  enter  through  his  doors  on  waves  of  stamped 
paper. 

Furthermore,  he  would  also  possess  the  notarial  stu- 
dio— the  dusty  office  with  its  ancient  furniture  and  great 
wardrobes,  with  its  screen  doors  and  green  curtains,  be- 
hind which  reposed  the  volumes  of  the  protocol,  covered 
with  yellowing  calfskin  with  initials  and  numbers  on 
their  backs.  Don  Esteban  realized  fully  all  that  his  study 
represented. 

"There  is  no  orange  grove,"  he  would  say  in  his  ex- 
pansive moments ;  ''there  are  no  rice  plantations  that  can 
produce  what  this  estate  does.  Here  there  are  no  frosts, 
nor  strong  sea  winds,  nor  inundations." 

The  clientele  was  certain — people  from  the  church,  who 
had  the  devotees  back  of  them  and  considered  Don  Este- 
ban as  one  of  their  class,  and  farmers,  many  rich  farm- 


CAPTAIN  ULYSSES  FERRAGUT  21 

crs.  The  families  of  the  country  folk,  whenever  they 
heard  any  talk  about  smart  men,  always  thought  imme- 
diately of  the  notary  from  Valencia.  With  religious  ven- 
eration they  saw  him  adjust  his  spectacles  in  order  to 
read  as  an  expert  the  bill  of  sale  or  dowry  contract  that 
his  amanuenses  had  just  drawn  up.  It  was  written  in 
Castilian  and  for  the  better  understanding  of  his  listen- 
ers he  would  read  it,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  in 
Valencian.  What  a  man!  .  .  . 

Afterwards,  while  the  contracting  parties  were  signing 
it,  the  notary  raising  the  little  glass  window  at  the  front, 
would  entertain  the  assembly  with  some  local  legends, 
always  decent,  without  any  illusions  to  the  sins  of  the 
flesh,  but  always  those  in  which  the  digestive  organs  fig- 
ured with  every  degree  of  license.  The  clients  would 
roar  with  laughter,  captivated  by  this  funny  eschatalogy, 
and  would  haggle  less  in  the  matter  of  fees.  Famous 
Don  Esteban!  .  .  .  Just  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  his 
yarns  they  would  have  liked  a  legal  paper  drawn  up  every 
month. 

The  future  destiny  of  the  notarial  crown  prince  was 
the  object  of  many  after-dinner  conversations  on  the  spe- 
cial days  when  the  poet  was  an  invited  guest. 

"What  do  you  want  to  be  ?"  Labarta  asked  his  godson. 

His  mother's  supplicating  glance  seemed  desperately  to 
implore  the  little  fellow:  "Say  Archbishop,  my  king." 
For  the  good  sefiora,  her  son  could  not  make  his  debut 
in  any  other  way  than  in  a  church  career.  The  notary 
always  used  to  speak  very  positively  from  his  own  view- 
point, without  consulting  the  interested  party.  He  would 
be  an  eminent  jurisconsult;  thousands  of  dollars  were 
going  to  roll  toward  him  as  though  they  were  pennies ;  he 
was  going  to  figure  in  university  solemnities  in  a  cloak  of 
crimson  satin  and  an  academic  cap  announcing  from  its 
multiple  sides  the  tasseled  glory  of  the  doctorate.  The 


22  MARE  NOSTRUM 

students  in  his  lecture-room  would  listen  to  him  most 
respectfully.  Who  knew  what  the  government  of  his 
country  might  not  have  in  store  for  him !  .  .  . 

Ulysses  interrupted  these  images  of  future  grandeur: 

"I  want  to  be  a  captain." 

The  poet  approved.  He  felt  the  unreflective  enthu- 
siasm which  all  pacific  and  sedentary  beings  have  for  the 
plume  and  the  sword.  At  the  mere  sight  of  a  uniform 
his  soul  always  thrilled  with  the  amorous  tenderness  of  a 
child's  nurse  when  she  finds  herself  courted  by  a  soldier. 

"Fine!"  said  Labarta.  "Captain  of  what?  ...  Of  ar- 
tillery? .  .  .  Of  the  staff?  .  .  . 

A  pause. 

"No;  captain  of  a  ship." 

Don  Esteban  looked  up  at  the  roof,  raising  his  hands 
in  horror.  He  well  knew  who  was  guilty  of  this  ridicu- 
lous idea,  the  one  who  had  put  such  absurd  longings  in 
his  son's  head ! 

And  he  was  thinking  of  his  brother,  the  retired  doc- 
tor, who  was  living  in  the  paternal  home  over  there  in  the 
Marina: — an  excellent  man,  but  a  little  crazy,  whom  the 
people  on  the  coast  called  the  Dotor,  and  the  poet  La- 
barta had  nicknamed  the  Triton. 


CHAPTER  II 

MATER  AMPHITRITE 

WHEN  the  Triton  occasionally  appeared  in  Valencia, 
thrifty  Dona  Cristina  was  obliged  to  modify  the  dietary 
of  her  family.  This  man  ate  nothing  but  fish,  and  her 
soul  of  an  economical  housewife  worried  greatly  at  the 
thought  of  the  extraordinarily  high  price  that  fish  brings 
in  a  port  of  exportation. 

Life  in  that  house,  where  everything  always  jogged 
along  so  uniformly,  was  greatly  upset  by  the  presence  of 
the  doctor.  A  little  after  daybreak,  just  when  its  in- 
habitants were  usually  enjoying  the  dessert  of  their 
night's  sleep,  hearing  drowsily  the  rumble  of  the  early 
morning  carts  and  the  bell-ringing  of  the  first  Masses, 
the  house  would  reecho  to  the  rude  banging  of  doors  and 
heavy  footsteps  making  the  stairway  creak.  It  was  the 
Triton  rushing  out  on  the  street,  incapable  of  remain- 
ing between  four  walls  after  the  first  streak  of  light. 
Following  the  currents  of  the  early  morning  life,  he 
would  reach  the  market,  stopping  before  the  flower 
stands  where  were  the  most  numerous  gatherings  of 
women. 

The  eyes  of  the  women  turned  toward  him  instinc- 
tively with  an  expression  of  interest  and  fear.  Some 
blushed  as  he  passed  by,  imagining  against  their  will 
what  an  embrace  from  this  hideous  and  restless  Colos- 
sus must  be. 

"He  is  capable  of  crushing  a  flea  on  his  arm/'  the 
sailors  of  his  village  used  to  boast  when  trying  to  empha- 

23 


24  MARE  NOSTRUM 

size  the  hardness  of  his  biceps.  His  body  lacked  fat,  and 
under  his  swarthy  skin  bulged  great,  rigid  and  protrud- 
ing muscles — an  Herculean  texture  from  which  had  been 
eliminated  every  element  incapable  of  producing  strength. 
Labarta  found  in  him  a  great  resemblance  to  the  marine 
divinities.  He  was  Neptune  before  his  head  had  silvered, 
or  Poseidon  as  the  primitive  Greek  poets  had  seen  him 
with  hair  black  and  curly,  features  tanned  by  the  salt  air, 
and  with  a  ringleted  beard  whose  two  spiral  ends  seemed 
formed  by  the  dripping  of  the  water  of  the  sea.  The 
nose  somewhat  flattened  by  a  blow  received  in  his  youth, 
and  the  little  eyes,  oblique  and  tenacious,  gave  to  his 
countenance  an  expression  of  Asiatic  ferocity,  but  this 
impression  melted  away  when  his  mouth  parted  in  a  smile, 
showing  his  even,  glistening  teeth,  the  teeth  of  a  man 
of  the  sea  accustomed  to  live  upon  salt  food. 

During  the  first  few  days  of  his  visit  he  would  wander 
through  the  streets  wavering  and  bewildered.  He  was 
afraid  of  the  carriages;  the  patter  of  the  passers-by  on 
the  pavements  annoyed  him;  he,  who  had  seen  the  most 
important  ports  of  both  hemispheres,  complained  of  the 
bustle  in  the  capital  of  a  province.  Finally  he  would  in- 
stinctively take  the  road  from  the  harbor  in  search  of  the 
sea,  his  eternal  friend,  the  first  to  salute  him  every  morn- 
ing upon  opening  the  door  of  his  own  home  down  there 
on  the  Marina. 

On  these  excursions  he  would  oftentimes  be  accom- 
panied by  his  little  nephew.  The  bustle  on  the  docks, — 
(the  creaking  of  the  cranes,  the  dull  rumble  of  the  carts, 
the  deafening  cries  of  the  freighters), — always  had  for 
him  a  certain  music  reminiscent  of  his  youth  when  he  was 
traveling  as  a  doctor  on  a  transatlantic  steamer. 

His  eyes  also  received  a  caress  from  the  past  upon 
taking  in  the  panorama  of  the  port — steamers  smoking, 
sailboats  with  their  canvas  spread  out  in  the  sunlight, 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  25 

bulwarks  of  orange  crates,  pyramids  of  onions,  walls  of 
sacks  of  rice  and  compact  rows  of  wine  casks  paunch  to 
paunch.  And  coming  to  meet  the  outgoing  cargo  were 
long  lines  of  unloaded  goods  being  lined  up  as  they  ar- 
rived— hills  of  coal  coming  from  England,  sacks  of  cereal 
from  the  Black  Sea,  dried  codfish  from  Newfoundland 
sounding  like  parchment  skins  as  they  thudded  down 
on  the  dock,  impregnating  the  atmosphere  with  their 
salty  dust,  and  yellow  lumber  from  Norway  that  still 
held  a  perfume  of  the  pine  woods. 

Oranges  and  onions  fallen  from  the  crates  were  rot- 
ting in  the  sun,  scattering  their  sweet  and  acrid  juices. 
The  sparrows  were  hopping  around  the  mountains  of 
wheat,  flitting  timidly  away  when  hearing  approaching 
footsteps.  Over  the  blue  surface  of  the  harbor  waters 
the  sea  gulls  of  the  Mediterranean,  small,  fine  and  white 
as  doves,  twined  in  and  out  in  their  interminable  contra- 
dances. 

The  Triton  went  on  enumerating  to  his  nephew  the 
class  and  specialty  of  every  kind  of  vessel;  and  upon 
discovering  that  Ulysses  was  capable  of  confusing  a 
brigantine  with  a  frigate,  he  would  roar  in  scandalized 
amazement. 

"Heavens !  Then  what  in  the  devil  do  they  teach  you 
in  school?  .  .  ." 

Upon  passing  near  the  citizens  of  Valencia  seated  on 
the  wharves,  fishing  rod  in  hand,  he  would  shoot  a  glance 
of  commiseration  toward  their  empty  baskets.  Over 
there  by  his  house  on  the  coast,  before  the  sun  would 
be  up,  he  would  already  have  covered  the  bottom  of  his 
boat  with  enough  to  eat  for  a  week.  The  misery  of  the 
cities ! 

Standing  on  the  last  points  of  the  rocky  ledge,  his 
glance  would  sweep  the  immense  plain,  describing  to 
his  nephew  the  mysteries  hidden  beyond  the  horizon.  At 


26  MARE  NOSTRUM 

their  left,  beyond  the  blue  mountains  of  Oropesa,  which 
bound  the  Valencian  gulf,  he  could  see  in  imagination 
Barcelona,  where  he  had  numerous  friends,  Marseilles, 
that  prolongation  of  the  Orient  fastened  on  the  European 
coast,  and  Genoa  with  its  terraced  palaces  on  hills  cov- 
ered with  gardens.  Then  his  vision  would  lose  itself 
on  the  horizon  stretching  out  in  front  of  him.  That  was 
the  road  of  his  happy  youth. 

Straight  ahead  in  a  direct  line  was  Naples  with  its 
smoking  mountain,  its  music  and  its  swarthy  dancing  girls 
with  hoop  earrings;  further  on,  the  Isles  of  Greece;  at 
the  foot  of  an  Aquatic  Street,  Constantinople;  and  still 
beyond,  bordering  the  great  liquid  court  of  the  Black 
Sea,  a  series  of  ports  where  the  Argonauts — sunk  in  a 
seething  mass  of  races,  fondled  by  the  felinism  of  slaves, 
the  voluptuosity  of  the  Orientals,  and  the  avarice  of  the 
Jews — were  fast  forgetting  their  origin. 

At  their  right  was  Africa;  the  Egyptian  ports  with 
their  traditional  corruption  that  at  sunset  was  beginning 
to  tremble  and  steam  like  a  fetid  morass ;  Alexandria  in 
whose  low  coffee  houses  were  imitation  Oriental  dancers 
with  no  more  clothes  than  a  pocket  handkerchief,  every 
woman  of  a  different  nation  and  shrieking  in  chorus  all 
the  languages  of  the  earth.  .  .  . 

The  doctor  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  sea  in  order 
to  observe  his  flattened  nose.  He  was  recalling  a  night 
of  Egyptian  heat  increased  by  the  fumes  of  whiskey;  the 
familiarity  of  the  half -clad  public  women,  the  scuffle 
with  some  ruddy  Northern  sailors,  the  encounter  in  the 
dark  which  obliged  him  to  flee  with  bleeding  face  to  the 
ship  that,  fortunately,  was  weighing  anchor  at  dawn. 
Like  all  Mediterranean  men,  he  never  went  ashore  with- 
out wearing  a  dagger  hidden  on  his  person,  and  he  had 
to  "sting"  with  it  in  order  to  make  way  for  himself. 

"What  times  those  were!"  said  the  Triton  with  more 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  27- 

regret  and  homesickness  than  remorse ;  and  then  he  would. 
add  by  way  of  excuse,  "Ay,  but  then  I  was  only  twenty- 
four  years  old !" 

These  memories  made  him  turn  his  eyes  toward  a  huge 
bluish  bulk  extending  out  into  the  sea  and  looking  to 
the  casual  spectator  like  a  great  barren  island.  It  was 
the  promontory  crowned  by  the  Mongo,  the  great  Fer- 
rarian  promontory  of  the  ancient  geographers,  the  fur- 
thest-reaching point  of  the  peninsula  in  the  lower  Med- 
iterranean that  closes  the  Gulf  of  Valencia  on  the  south. 

It  had  the  form  of  a  hand  whose  digits  were  moun- 
tains, but  lacked  the  thumb.  The  other  four  fingers  ex- 
tended out  into  the  waves,  forming  the  capes  of  San  An- 
tonio, San  Martin,  La  Nao  and  Almoraira.  In  one  of 
their  coves  was  the  Triton's  native  village,  and  the  home 
of  the  Ferraguts — hunters  of  black  pirates  in  other  days, 
contrabandists  at  times  in  modern  days,  sailors  in  all  ages, 
appearing  originally,  perhaps,  from  those  first  wooden 
horses  that  came  leaping  over  the  foam  seething  around 
the  promontory. 

In  that  home  in  the  Marina  he  wished  to  live  and  die, 
with  no  further  desire  of  seeing  more  lands,  with  that 
sudden  immovability  that  attacks  the  vagabonds  of  the 
waves  and  makes  them  fix  themselves  upon  a  ledge  of 
the  coast  like  a  mollusk  or  bunch  of  seaweed. 

Soon  the  Triton  grew  tired  of  these  strolls  to  the  har- 
bor. The  sea  of  Valencia  was  not  a  real  sea  for  him.  The 
waters  of  the  river  and  of  the  irrigation  canals  disturbed 
him.  When  it  rained  in  the  mountains  of  Aragon,  an 
earthy  liquid  always  discharged  itself  into  the  Gulf,  tint- 
ing the  waves  with  flesh  color  and  the  foam  with  yellow. 
Besides,  it  was  impossible  to  indulge  in  his  daily  sport  of 
swimming.  One  winter  morning,  when  he  began  to  un- 
dress himself  on  the  beach,  the  crowd  gathered  around 


28  MARE  NOSTRUM 

him  as  though  attracted  by  a  phenomenon.  Even  the  fish" 
of  the  Gulf  had  to  him  an  insufferable  slimy  taste. 

"I'm  going  back  home,"  he  would  finally  say  to  the 
notary  and  his  wife.  "I  can't  understand  how  in  the 
world  you  are  able  to  live  here !" 

In  one  of  these  retreats  to  the  Marina  he  insisted  upon 
taking  Ulysses  home  with  him.  The  summer  season  was 
beginning,  the  boy  would  be  free  from  school  for  three 
months,  and  the  notary,  who  was  not  able  to  go  far  away 
from  the  city,  was  going  to  pass  the  summer  with  his 
family  on  the  beach  at  Cabanal  checkered  by  bad-smelling 
irrigation  canals  near  a  forlorn  sea.  The  little  fellow  was 
looking  very  pale  and  weak  on  account  of  his  studies  and 
hectoring.  His  uncle  would  make  him  as  strong  and 
agile  as  a  dolphin.  And  in  spite  of  some  very  lively  dis- 
putes, he  succeeded  in  snatching  the  child  away  from 
Dona  Cristina. 

The  first  things  that  Ulysses  admired  upon  entering 
the  doctor's  home  were  the  three  frigates  adorning  the 
ceiling  of  the  dining-room — three  marvelous  vessels  in 
which  there  was  not  lacking  a  single  sail  nor  pulley  rope, 
nor  anchor,  and  which  might  be  made  to  sail  over  the  sea 
at  a  moment's  notice. 

They  were  the  work  of  his  grandfather  Ferragut. 
Wishing  to  release  his  two  sons  from  the  marine  service 
which  had  weighed  upon  the  family  for  many  centuries, 
he  had  sent  them  to  the  University  of  Valencia  in  order 
that  they  might  become  inland  gentlemen.  The  older, 
Esteban,  had  scarcely  terminated  his  career  before  he 
obtained  a  notaryship  in  Catalunia.  The  younger  one, 
Antonio,  became  a  doctor  so  as  not  to  thwart  the  old 
man's  wishes,  but  as  soon  as  he  acquired  his  degree  he 
offered  his  services  to  a  transatlantic  steamer.  His  father 
had  closed  the  door  of  the  sea  against  him  and  he  had 
entered  by  the  window. 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  29 

And  so,  as  Ferragut  Senior  began  to  grow  old,  he  lived 
completely  alone.  He  used  to  look  after  his  property — a 
few  vineyards  scattered  along  the  coast  in  sight  of  his 
home — and  was  in  frequent  correspondence  with  his  son, 
the  notary.  From  time  to  time  there  came  a  letter  from 
the  younger  one,  his  favorite,  posted  in  remote  countries 
that  the  old  Mediterranean  seaman  knew  only  by  hear- 
say. And  during  his  long,  dull  hours  in  the  shade  of  his 
arbor  facing  the  blue  and  luminous  sea,  he  used  to  enter- 
tain himself  constructing  these  little  models  of  boats. 
They  were  all  frigates  of  great  tonnage  and  fearless  sail. 
Thus  the  old  skipper  would  console  himself  for  having 
commanded  during  his  lifetime  only  heavy  and  clumsy 
merchant  vessels  like  the  ships  of  other  centuries,  in 
which  he  used  to  carry  wine  from  Cette  or  cargo  pro- 
hibited in  Gibraltar  and  the  coast  of  Africa. 

Ulysses  was  not  long  in  recognizing  the  rare  popularity 
enjoyed  by  his  uncle,  the  doctor — a  popularity  composed 
of  the  most  antagonistic  elements.  The  people  used  to 
smile  in  speaking  of  him  as  though  he  were  a  little 
touched,  yet  they  dared  to  indulge  in  these  smiles  only 
when  at  a  safe  distance,  for  he  inspired  a  certain  terror 
in  all  of  them.  At  the  same  time  they  used  to  admire  him 
as  a  local  celebrity,  for  he  had  traversed  all  seas,  and 
possessed,  besides,  a  violent  and  tempestuous  strength 
which  was  the  terror  and  pride  of  his  neighbors.  The 
husky  youths  when  testing  the  vigor  of  their  fists,  boxing 
with  crews  of  the  English  vessels  that  came  there  for 
cargoes  of  raisins,  used  to  evoke  the  doctor's  name  as  a 
consolation  in  case  of  defeat.  "If  only  the  Dotor  could 
have  been  here!  .  .  .  Half  a  dozen  Englishmen  are  noth- 
ing to  him!" 

There  was  no  vigorous  undertaking,  however  absurd 
it  might  be,  that  they  would  not  believe  him  capable  of. 
He  used  to  inspire  the  faith  of  the  miracle-working  saints 


30  MARE  NOSTRUM 

.and  audacious  highway  captains.  On  calm,  sunshiny 
winter  mornings  the  people  would  often  go  running  down 
to  the  beach,  looking  anxiously  over  the  lonely  sea.  The 
veterans  who  were  toasting  themselves  in  the  sun  near 
the  overturned  boats,  on  scanning  the  broad  horizon, 
would  finally  discern  an  almost  imperceptible  point,  a 
grain  of  sand  dancing  capriciously  on  the  waves. 

They  would  all  break  into  shouts  and  conjectures.  It 
was  a  buoy,  a  piece  of  masthead,  the  drift  from  a  distant 
shipwreck.  For  the  women  it  was  somebody  drowned,  so 
bloated  that  it  was  floating  like  a  leather  bottle,  after  hav- 
ing been  many  days  in  the  water. 

Suddenly  the  same  supposition  would  arise  in  every 
perplexed  mind.  "I  wonder  if  it  could  be  the  Dotor!"  A 
long  silence.  .  .  .  The  bit  of  wood  was  taking  the  form 
of  a  head;  the  corpse  was  moving.  Many  could  now 
perceive  the  bubble  of  foam  around  his  chest  that  was 
advancing  like  the  prow  of  a  ship,  and  the  vigorous 
strokes  of  his  arms.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  surely  was  the  Dotor!" 
.  .  .  The  old  sea  dogs  loaned  their  telescopes  to  one  an- 
other in  order  to  recognize  his  beard  sunk  in  the  water 
and  his  face,  contracted  by  his  efforts  or  expanded  by  his 
snortings. 

And  the  Dotor  was  soon  treading  the  dry  beach,  naked 
and  as  serenely  unashamed  as  a  god,  giving  his  hand  to 
the  men,  while  the  women  shrieked,  lifting  their  aprons 
in  front  of  one  eye — terrified,  yet  admiring  the  dripping 
vision. 

All  the  capes  of  the  promontory  challenged  him  to 
double  them,  swimming  like  a  dolphin;  he  felt  impelled 
to  measure  all  the  bays  and  coves  with  his  arms,  like  a 
proprietor  who  distrusts  another's  measurements  and  rec- 
tifies them  in  order  to  affirm  his  right  of  possession.  He 
was  a  human  bark  who,  with  the  keel  of  his  breast, 
cut  the  foam,  whirling  through  the  sunken  rocks  and 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  31 

the  pacific  waters  in  whose  depths  sparkled  fishes  among 
mother-of-pearl  twigs  and  stars  moving  like  flowers. 

He  used  to  seat  himself  to  rest  on  the  black  rocks 
with  overskirts  of  seaweed  that  raised  or  lowered  their 
fringe  at  the  caprice  of  the  wave,  awaiting  the  night  and 
the  chance  vessel  that  might  come  to  dash  against  them 
like  a  piece  of  bark.  Like  a  marine  reptile  he  had  even 
penetrated  certain  caves  of  the  coast,  drowsy  and  glacial 
lakes  illuminated  by  mysterious  openings  where  the 
atmosphere  is  black  and  the  water  transparent,  where  the 
swimmer  has  a  bust  of  ebony  and  legs  of  crystal.  In 
the  course  of  these  swimming  expeditions  he  ate  all  the 
living  beings  he  encountered  fastened  to  the  rocks  by 
antennae  and  arms.  The  friction  of  the  great,  terrified 
fish  that  fled,  bumping  against  him  with  the  violence  of 
a  projectile,  used  to  make  him  laugh. 

In  the  night  hours  passed  before  his  grandfather's 
little  ships,  Ulysses  used  to  hear  the  Triton  speak  of  the 
Peje  Nicolao,  a  man-fish  of  the  Straits  of  Messina  men- 
tioned by  Cervantes  and  other  authors,  who  lived  in  the 
water  maintaining  himself  by  the  donations  from  the 
ships.  His  uncle  must  be  some  relative  of  this  Peje  Nico- 
lao. At  other  times  this  uncle  would  mention  a  cer- 
tain Greek  who  in  order  to  see  his  lady-love  swam  the 
Hellespont  every  night.  And  he,  who  used  to  know  the 
Dardanelles,  was  longing  to  return  there  as  a  simple  pas- 
senger merely  that  a  poet  named  Lord  Byron  might  not 
be  the  only  one  to  imitate  the  legendary  crossing. 

The  books  that  he  kept  in  his  home,  the  nautical  charts 
fastened  to  the  walls,  the  flasks  and  jars  filled  with  the 
animal  and  vegetable  life  of  the  sea,  and  more  than  all 
this,  his  tastes  which  were  so  at  variance  with  the  cus- 
toms of  his  neighbors,  had  given  the  Triton  the  repu- 
tation of  a  mysterious  sage,  the  fame  of  a  wizard. 

All  those  who  were  well  and  strong  considered  him 


32  MARE  NOSTRUM 

crazy,  but  the  moment  that  there  was  the  slightest  break 
in  their  health  they  would  share  the  same  faith  as  the 
poor  women  who  oftentimes  passed  long  hours  in  the 
home  of  the  Dotor,  seeing  his  bark  afar  off  and  patiently 
awaiting  his  return  from  the  sea,  in  order  to  show  him 
the  sick  children  they  carried  in  their  arms.  He  had  an 
advantage  over  all  other  doctors,  as  he  made  no  charge 
for  his  services ;  better  still,  many  sick  people  came  away 
from  his  house  with  money  in  their  hands. 

The  Dotor  was  rich — the  richest  man  in  the  country- 
side; a  man  who  really  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
his  money.  His  maid-servant — an  old  woman  who  had 
known  his  father  and  served  his  mother — used  daily  ta 
receive  from  his  hands  the  fish  provided  for  the  two  with 
a  regal  generosity.  The  Triton,  who  had  hoisted  sail  at 
daybreak,  used  to  disembark  before  eleven,  and  soon  the 
purpling  lobster  was  crackling  on  the  red  coals,  sending 
forth  delicious  odors;  the  stew  pot  was  bubbling  away, 
thickening  its  broth  with  the  succulent  fat  of  the  sea-scor- 
pion ;  the  oil  in  the  frying  pan  was  singing,  browning  the 
flame-colored  skin  of  the  salmonettes;  and  the  sea  ur- 
chins and  the  mussels  opened  hissing  under  his  knife, 
were  emptying  their  still  living  pulp  into  the  boiling  stew 
pan.  Furthermore,  a  cow  with  full  udders  was  mooing 
in  the  yard,  and  dozens  of  chickens  with  innumerable 
broods  were  cackling  incessantly. 

The  flour  kneaded  and  baked  by  his  servant,  and  the 
coffee  thick  as  mud,  was  all  that  the  Triton  purchased 
with  his  money.  If  he  hunted  for  a  bottle  of  brandy  on 
his  return  from  a  swim,  it  was  only  to  use  it  in  rubbing 
himself  down. 

Money  entered  through  his  doors  once  a  year,  when 
the  girls  of  the  vintage  lined  up  among  the  trellises  of 
his  vineyards,  cutting  the  bunches  of  little,  close  fruit 
and  spreading  them  out  to  dry  in  some  small  sheds 


MATER  AMPHITRITE 


33 


called  riurraus.  Thus  was  produced  the  small  raisin  pre- 
ferred by  the  English  for  the  making  of  their  puddings. 
The  sale  was  a  sure  thing,  the  boats  always  coming  from 
the  north  to  get  the  fruit.  And  the  Triton,  upon  finding 
five  or  six  thousand  pesetas  in  his  hand,  would  be  greatly 
perplexed,  inwardly  asking  himself  what  a  man  was 
ever  going  to  do  with  so  much  money. 

"All  this  is  yours,"  he  said,  showing  the  house  to  his 
nephew. 

His  also  the  boat,  the  books  and  the  antique  furni- 
ture in  whose  drawers  the  money  was  so  openly  hid  that 
it  invited  attention. 

In  spite  of  seeing  himself  lord  of  all  that  surrounded 
him,  a  rough  and  affectionate  despotism,  kept  neverthe- 
less, weighing  the  child  down.  He  was  very  far  from  his 
mother,  that  good  lady  who  was  always  closing  the 
windows  near  him  and  never  letting  him  go  out  with- 
out tying  his  neckscarf  around  him  with  an  accompani- 
ment of  kisses. 

Just  when  he  was  sleeping  soundest,  believing  that 
the  night  would  still  be  many  hours  longer,  he  would  feel 
himself  awakened  by  a  violent  tugging  at  his  leg.  His 
uncle  could  not  touch  him  in  any  other  way.  "Get  up, 
cabin  boy !"  In  vain  he  would  protest  with  the  profound 
sleepiness  of  youth.  .  .  .  Was  he,  or  was  he  not  the 
"ship's  cat"  of  the  bark  of  which  his  uncle  was  the  cap- 
tain and  only  crew  ?  .  .  . 

His  uncle's  paws  bared  him  to  the  blasts  of  salt  air 
that  were  entering  through  the  windows.  The  sea  was 
dark  and  veiled  by  a  light  fog.  The  last  stars  were 
sparkling  with  twinkles  of  surprise,  ready  to  flee.  A 
crack  began  to  appear  on  the  leaden  horizon,  growing 
redder  and  redder  every  minute,  like  a  wound  through 
which  the  blood  is  flowing.  The  ship's  cat  was  loaded  up 
with  various  empty  baskets,  the  skipper  marching  before 


34  MARE  NOSTRUM 

him  like  a  warrior  of  the  waves,  carrying  the  oars  on  his 
shoulders,  his  feet  rapidly  making  hollows  on  the  sand. 
Behind  him  the  village  was  beginning  to  awaken  and,  over 
the  dark  waters,  the  sails  of  the  fishermen,  fleeing  the 
inner  sea,  were  slipping  past  like  ghostly  shrouds. 

Two  vigorous  strokes  of  the  oar  sent  their  boat  out 
from  the  little  wharf  of  stones,  and  soon  he  was  untying 
the  sails  from  the  gunwales  and  preparing  the  ropes. 
The  unfurled  canvas  whistled  and  swelled  in  bellying 
whiteness.  'There  we  are !  Now  for  a  run !" 

The  water  was  beginning  to  sing,  slipping  past  both 
sides  of  the  prow.  Between  it  and  the  edge  of  the  sail 
could  be  seen  a  bit  of  black  sea,  and  coming  little  by 
little  over  its  line,  a  great  red  streak.  The  streak  soon 
became  a  helmet,  then  a  hemisphere,  then  an  Arabian  arch 
confined  at  the  bottom,  until  finally  it  shot  up  out  of  the 
liquid  mass  as  though  it  were  a  bomb  sending  forth 
flashes  of  flame.  The  ash-colored  clouds  became  stained 
with  blood  and  the  large  rocks  of  the  coast  began  to 
sparkle  like  copper  mirrors.  As  the  last  stars  were 
extinguished,  a  swarm  of  fire-colored  fishes  came  trail- 
ing along  before  the  prow,  forming  a  triangle  with  its 
point  in  the  horizon.  The  mist  on  the  mountain  tops 
was  taking  on  a  rose  color  as  though  its  whiteness  were 
reflecting  a  submarine  eruption.  "Bon  dia!"  called  the 
doctor  to  Ulysses,  who  was  occupied  in  warming  his 
hands  stiffened  by  the  wind. 

And,  moved  with  childlike  joy  by  the  dawn  of  a  new 
day,  the  Triton  sent  his  bass  voice  booming  across  the 
maritime  silence,  several  times  intoning  sentimental  melo- 
dies that  in  his  youth  he  had  heard  sung  by  a  vaudeville 
prima  donna  dressed  as  a  ship's  boy,  at  other  times  carol- 
ing in  Valencian  the  chanteys  of  the  coast — fishermen's 
songs  invented  as  they  drew  in  their  nets,  in  which  most 
shameless  words  were  flung  together  on  the  chance  of 


MATER  AMFHITRITE  35 

making  them  rhyme.  In  certain  windings  of  the  coast  the 
sail  would  be  lowered,  leaving  the  boat  with  no  other  mo- 
tion than  a  gentle  rocking  around  its  anchor  rope. 

Upon  seeing  the  space  which  had  been  obscured  by 
the  shadow  of  the  boat's  hulk,  Ulysses  found  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  so  near  that  he  almost  believed  that  he  could 
touch  it  with  the  point  of  his  oar.  The  rocks  were  like 
glass.  In  their  interstices  and  hollows  the  plants  were 
moving  like  living  creatures,  and  the  little  animals  had 
the  immovability  of  vegetables  and  stones.  The  boat 
appeared  to  be  floating  in  the  air  and  athwart  the  liquid 
atmosphere  that  wraps  this  abysmal  world,  the  fish  hooks 
were  dangling,  and  a  swarm  of  fishes  was  swimming  and 
wriggling  toward  its  encounter  with  death. 

It  was  a  sparkling  effervescence  of  yellowing  flames, 
of  bluish  backs  and  rosy  fins.  Some  came  out  from  the 
caves  silvered  and  vibrant  as  lightning  flashes  of  mer- 
cury; others  swam  slowly,  big-bellied,  almost  circular, 
with  a  golden  coat  of  mail.  Along  the  slopes,  the  crus- 
taceans came  scrambling  along  on  their  double  row  of 
claws  attracted  by  this  novelty  that  was  changing  the 
mortal  calm  of  the  under-sea  where  all  follow  and  de- 
vour, only  to  be  devoured  in  turn.  Near  the  surface 
floated  the  medusae,  living  parasols  of  an  opaline  white- 
ness with  circular  borders  of  lilac  or  red  bronze.  Under 
their  gelatinous  domes  was  the  skein  of  filaments  that 
served  them  for  locomotion,  nutrition  and  reproduction. 

The  fishermen  had  only  to  pull  in  their  lines  and  a  new 
prisoner  would  fall  into  their  boat.  Their  baskets  were 
filling  up  so  fast  that  the  Triton  and  his  nephew  grew 
tired  of  this  easy  fishing.  .  .  .  The  sun  was  now  near 
the  height  of  its  curve,  and  every  wavelet  was  carrying 
away  a  bit  of  the  golden  band  that  divided  the  blue 
immensity.  The  wood  of  the  boat  appeared  to  be  on  fire. 

"We've  earned  our  day's  pay,"  said  the  Triton,  looking 


36  MARE  NOSTRUM 

at  the  sky  and  theii  at  the  baskets.  "Now  let's  clean  up 
a  little  bit." 

And  stripping  off  his  clothing,  he  threw  himself  into 
the  sea.  Ulysses  saw  him  descend  from  the  center  of 
the  ring  of  foam  opened  by  his  body,  and  could  gauge 
by  it  the  profundity  of  that  fantastic  world  composed  of 
glassy  rocks,  animal  plants  and  stone  animals.  As  it 
went  down,  the  tawny  body  of  the  swimmer  took  on 
the  transparency  of  porcelain.  It  appeared  of  bluish 
crystal — a  statue  made  of  a  Venetian  mirror  composition 
that  was  going  to  break  as  soon  as  it  touched  the  bottom. 

Like  a  god  he  was  passing  through  the  deeps,  snatching 
plants  out  by  the  roots,  pursuing  with  his  hands  the  flashes 
of  vermilion  and  gold  hidden  in  the  cracks  of  the  rocks. 
Minutes  would  pass  by ;  he  was  going  to  stay  down  for- 
ever; he  would  never  come  up  again.  And  the  boy  was 
beginning  to  think  uneasily  of  the  possibility  of  having 
to  guide  the  bark  back  to  the  coast  all  alone.  Suddenly 
the  body  of  white  crystal  began  taking  on  a  greenish  hue, 
growing  larger  and  larger,  becoming  dark  and  coppery, 
until  above  the  surface  appeared  the  head  of  the  swim- 
mer, who,  spouting  and  snorting,  was  holding  up  all 
his  submarine  plunder  to  the  little  fellow. 

"Now  then,  your  turn!"  he  ordered  m  an  imperious 
tone. 

All  attempts  at  resistance  were  useless.  His  uncle 
either  insulted  him  with  the  harshest  kind  of  words  or 
coaxed  him  with  promises  of  safety.  He  never  knew 
certainly  whether  he  threw  himself  into  the  water  or 
whether  a  tug  from  the  doctor  jerked  him  from  the  boat. 
The  first  surprise  having  passed,  he  had  the  impression 
of  remembering  some  long  forgotten  thing.  He  was 
swimming  instinctively,  divining  what  he  ought  to  do  be- 
fore his  master  told  him.  Within  him  was  awakening  the 
ancestral  experience  of  a  race  of  sailors  who  had  strug- 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  37; 

gled  with  the  sea  and,  sometimes,  had  remained  forever 
in  its  bosom. 

Recollection  of  what  was  existing  beyond  his  feet  sud- 
denly made  him  lose  his  serenity, — his  lively  imagination 
making  him  shriek, 

"Uncle!  .  .  .  Uncle!" 

And  he  clutched  convulsively  at  the  hard  island  of 
bearded  and  smiling  muscles.  His  uncle  came  up  im- 
movable, as  though  his  feet  of  stone  were  fastened  to 
the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  He  was  like  the  nearby  prom- 
ontory that  was  darkening  and  chilling  the  water  with 
its  ebony  shadow. 

Thus  would  slip  by  the  mornings  devoted  to  fishing  and 
swimming;  then  in  the  afternoons  there  were  tramps 
over  the  steep  shores  of  the  coast. 

The  Dotor  knew  the  heights  of  the  promontory  as  well 
as  its  depths.  Up  the  pathways  of  the  wild  goat  they 
clambered  to  its  peaks  in  order  to  get  a  view  of  the  Island 
of  Ibiza.  At  sunset  the  distant  Balearic  Islands  appeared 
like  a  rose-colored  flame  rising  out  of  the  waves.  At 
other  times  the  cronies  made  trips  along  the  water's  edge, 
and  the  Triton  would  show  his  nephew  hidden  caves  into 
which  the  Mediterranean  was  working  its  way  with  slow 
undulations.  These  were  like  maritime  roadsteads  where 
boats  might  anchor  completely  concealed  from  view. 
There  the  galleys  of  the  Berbers  had  often  hidden,  in 
order  to  fall  unexpectedly  upon  a  nearby  village. 

In  one  of  these  caves,  on  a  rocky  pedestal,  Ulysses 
often  saw  a  heap  of  bundles. 

"Well,  now,  what  of  it!"  expostulated  the  doctor. 
"Every  man  must  gain  his  living  as  best  he  can." 

When  they  stumbled  upon  a  solitary  custom  house  offi- 
cer resting  upon  his  gun  and  looking  out  toward  the  sea, 
the  doctor  would  offer  him  a  cigar  and  give  him  medical 
advice  if  he  were  sick.  "Poor  men !  s*o  badly  paid !"  .  .  . 


38  MARE  NOSTRUM 

But  his  sympathies  were  always  going  out  to  the  others — 
to  the  enemies  of  the  law.  He  was  the  son  of  his  sea,  and 
in  the  make-up  of  all  Mediterranean  heroes  and  sailors 
there  had  always  been  something  of  the  pirate  or  smug- 
gler. The  Phoenicians,  who  by  their  navigation  spread 
abroad  the  first  works  of  civilization,  instituted  this  serv- 
ice, reaping  their  reward  by  filling  their  barks  with  stolen 
women,  rich  merchandise  of  easy  transportation. 

Piracy  and  smuggling  had  formed  the  historic  past  of 
all  the  villages  that  Ulysses  was  visiting,  some  huddled 
in  the  shelter  of  the  promontory  crowned  with  a  light- 
house, others  opening  on  the  concavity  of  a  bay  dotted 
with  barren  islands  girdled  with  foam.  The  old  churches 
had  turrets  on  their  walls  and  loopholes  in  their  doors 
for  shooting  with  culverins  and  blunderbusses.  The 
entire  neighborhood  used  to  take  refuge  in  them  when  the 
smoke  columns  from  their  watchmen  would  warn  them 
of  the  landing  of  pirates  from  Algiers.  Following  the 
curvings  of  the  promontory  there  was  a  dotted  line  of 
reddish  towers,  each  one  accompanied  by  a  smaller  pair 
for  lookouts.  This  line  extended  along  the  south  toward 
the  Straits  of  Gibraltar,  and  on  its  northern  side  reached 
to  France. 

The  doctor  had  seen  their  counterpart  in  all  the 
islands  of  the  western  Mediterranean,  on  the  coasts  of 
Naples  and  in  Sicily.  They  were  the  fortifications  of  a 
thousand-year  war,  of  a  struggle  ten  centuries  long  be- 
tween Moors  and  Christians  for  the  domination  of  the 
blue  sea,  a  struggle  of  piracy  in  which  the  Mediterranean 
men — differentiated  by  religion,  but  identical  at  heart — 
had  prolonged  the  adventures  of  the  Odyssey  down  to  the 
beginnings  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

Ferragut  gradually  became  acquainted  with  many  old 
men  of  the  village  who  in  their  youth  had  been  slaves 
in  Algiers.  On  winter  evenings  the  oldest  of  them  were 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  39 

still  singing  romances  of  captivity  and  speaking  with 
terror  of  the  Berber  brigantines.  These  thieves  of  the 
sea  must  have  had  a  pact  with  the  devil,  who  notified 
them  of  opportune  occasions.  If  in  a  convent  some  beau- 
tiful novices  had  just  made  their  profession,  the  doors 
would  give  away  at  midnight  under  the  hatchet-blows  of 
the  bearded  demons  who  were  advancing  inland  from 
the  galleys  prepared  to  receive  their  cargo  of  feminine 
freight.  If  a  girl  of  the  coast,  celebrated  for  her  beauty, 
was  going  to  be  married,  the  infidels,  lying  in  wait,  would 
surround  the  door  of  the  church,  shooting  their  blunder- 
busses and  knifing  the  unarmed  men  as  they  came  out,  in 
order  to  carry  away  the  women  in  their  festal  robes. 

On  all  the  coast,  the  pirates  stood  in  awe  only  of  the 
navigators  from  the  Marina,  so  fearless  and  warlike  were 
they.  If  their  villages  were  ever  attacked,  it  was  because 
their  seafaring  defenders  were  on  the  Mediterranean  and, 
in  their  turn,  had  gone  to  sack  and  burn  some  village  on 
the  coast  of  Africa. 

The  Triton  and  his  nephew  used  to  eat  their  supper 
under  the  arbor  in  the  long  summer  twilights.  After  the 
cloth  was  removed  Ulysses  would  manipulate  his  grand- 
father's little  frigates,  learning  the  technical  parts  and 
names  of  the  different  apparatus,  and  the  management  of 
the  sets  of  sails.  Sometimes  the  two  would  stay  out  on 
the  rustic  porch  until  a  late  hour  gazing  out  over  the 
luminous  sea  sparkling  under  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 
or  streaked  with  a  slender  wake  of  starry  light  in  the 
murky  nights. 

All  that  mankind  had  ever  written  or  dreamed  about 
the  Mediterranean,  the  doctor  had  in  his  library  and 
could  repeat  to  his  eager  little  listener.  In  Ferragut's 
estimation  the  mare  nostrum  x  was  a  species  of  blue  beast, 

'"Mare  Nostrum"  (Our  Sea),  the  classic  name  for  the  Medi- 
terranean. 


40  MARE  NOSTRUM 

powerful  and  of  great  intelligence — a  sacred  animal  like 
the  dragons  and  serpents  that  certain  religions  adored,  be- 
lieving them  to  be  the  source  of  life.  The  rivers  that 
threw  themselves  impetuously  into  its  bosom  in  order 
to  renew  it  were  few  and  scanty.  The  Rhone  and  the 
Nile  appeared  to  be  pitiful  little  rivulets  compared  with 
the  river  courses  of  other  continents  that  empty  into  the 
oceans. 

Losing  by  evaporation  three  times  more  liquid  than 
the  rivers  bring  to  it,  this  sunburnt  sea  would  soon  have 
been  converted  into  a  great  salt  desert  were  not  the  At- 
lantic sending  it  a  rapid  current  of  renewal  that  was  pre- 
cipitated through  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar.  Under  this 
superficial  current  existed  still  another,  flowing  in  an 
opposite  direction,  that  returned  a  part  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean to  the  ocean,  because  the  Mediterranean  waters 
were  more  salt  and  dense  than  those  of  the  Atlantic.  The 
tide  scarcely  made  itself  felt  on  its  strands.  Its  basin 
was  mined  by  subterranean  fires  that  were  always  seek- 
ing extraordinary  outlets  through  Vesuvius  and  TEtna, 
and  breathed  continually  through  the  mouth  of  Strom- 
boli.  Sometimes  these  Plutonic  ebullitions  would  come 
to  the  surface,  making  new  islands  rise  up  upon  the 
waters  like  tumors  of  lava. 

In  its  bosom  exist  still  double  the  quantity  of  animal 
species  that  abound  in  other  seas,  although  less  numerous. 
The  tunny  fish,  playful  lambs  of  the  blue  pasture  lands, 
were  gamboling  over  its  surface  or  passing  in  schools 
under  the  furrows  of  the  waves.  Men  were  setting 
netted  traps  for  them  along  the  coasts  of  Spain  and 
France,  in  Sardinia,  the  Straits  of  Messina  and  the  waters 
of  the  Adriatic.  But  this  wholesale  slaughter  scarcely 
lessened  the  compact,  fishy  squadrons.  After  wander- 
ing through  the  windings  of  the  Grecian  Archipelago, 
they  passed  the  Dardanelles  and  the  Bosphorus,  stirring 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  41 

the  two  narrow  passageways  with  the  violence  of  their 
invisible  gallopade  and  making  a  turn  at  the  bowl  of  the 
Black  Sea,  swimming  back,  decimated  but  impetuous,  to 
the  depths  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Red  coral  was  forming  immovable  groves  on  the  sub- 
strata of  the  Balearic  Islands,  and  on  the  coasts  of  Naples 
and  Africa.  Ambergris  was  constantly  being  found  on 
the  steep  shores  of  Sicily.  Sponges  were  growing  in 
the  tranquil  waters  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  rocks  of 
Mallorca  and  the  Isles  of  Greece.  Naked  men  without 
any  equipment  whatever,  holding  their  breath,  were  still 
descending  to  the  bottom  as  in  primitive  times,  in  order 
to  snatch  these  treasures  away. 

The  doctor  gave  up  his  geographic  descriptions  to  dis- 
course on  the  history  of  his  sea,  which  had  indeed  been 
the  history  of  civilization,  and  was  more  fascinating  to 
him.  At  first  miserable  and  scanty  tribes  had  wandered 
along  its  coasts  seeking  their  food  from  the  crustaceans 
drawn  from  the  waves — a  life  similar  to  that  of  the  rudi- 
mentary people  that  Ferragut  had  seen  in  the  islands  of 
the  Pacific.  When  stone  saws  had  hollowed  out  the 
trunks  of  trees  and  human  arms  had  ventured  to  spread 
the  first  rawhides  to  the  forces  of  the  atmosphere,  the 
coasts  became  rapidly  populated. 

Temples  were  constructed  on  the  promontories,  and 
maritime  cities — the  first  nuclei  of  modern  civilization — • 
came  into  existence.  On  this  landlocked  sea  mankind  had 
learned  the  art  of  navigation.  Every  one  looked  at  the 
waves  before  looking  at  the  sky.  Over  this  blue  highway 
had  arrived  the  miracles  of  life,  and  out  of  its  depths 
the  gods  were  born.  The  Phoenicians — Jews,  become 
navigators — abandoned  their  cities  in  the  depths  of  the 
Mediterranean  sack,  in  order  to  spread  the  mysterious 
knowledge  of  Egypt  and  the  Asiatic  monarchies  all  along 


42  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  shores  of  the  interior  sea.  Afterwards  the  Greeks  of 
the  maritime  republics  took  their  places. 

In  Ferragut's  estimation  the  greatest  honor  to  which 
Athens  could  lay  claim  was  that  she  had  been  a  democracy 
of  sailors,  her  freemen  serving  their  country  as  rowers 
and  all  her  famous  men  as  great  marine  officials. 

"Themistocles  and  Pericles,"  he  added,  "were  admir- 
als of  fleets,  and  after  commanding  ships,  governed  their 
country." 

On  that  account  Grecian  civilization  had  spread  itself 
everywhere  and  had  become  immortal  instead  of  lessen- 
ing and  disappearing  without  fruit  as  in  the  interior 
lands.  Then  Rome,  terrestrial  Rome,  in  order  to  hold  its 
own  against  the  superiority  of  the  Semitic  navigators  of 
Carthage,  had  to  teach  the  management  of  the  oar  and 
marine  combat  to  the  inhabitants  of  Latium,  to  their 
legionaries  with  faces  hardened  by  the  chin  straps  of 
their  helmets,  who  did  not  know  how  to  adjust  their 
world-dominating  iron-shod  feet  to  the  slippery  planks 
of  a  vessel. 

The  divinities  of  mare  nostrum  always  inspired  a  most 
loving  devotion  in  the  doctor.  He  knew  that  they  had 
not  existed,  but  he,  nevertheless,  believed  in  them  as 
poetic  phantasms  of  natural  forces. 

The  ancient  world  only  knew  the  immense  ocean  in 
hypothesis,  giving  it  the  form  of  an  aquatic  girdle  around 
the  earth.  Oceanus  was  an  old  god  with  a  long  beard 
and  horned  head  who  lived  in  a  maritime  cavern  with 
his  wife,  Tethys,  and  his  three  hundred  daughters,  the 
Oceanides.  No  Argonaut  had  ever  dared  to  come  in 
contact  with  these  mysterious  divinities.  Only  the  grave 
JEschylus  had  dared  to  portray  the  Oceanides — virgins 
fresh  and  demure,  weeping  around  the  rock  to  which 
Prometheus  was  bound. 

Other  more  approachable  deities  were  those  of  the 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  43 

eternal  sea  on  whose  borders  were  founded  the  opulent 
cities  of  the  Syrian  coast;  the  Egyptian  cities  that  sent 
sparks  of  their  ritual  civilization  to  Greece ;  the  Hellenic 
cities,  hearths  of  clear  fire  that  had  fused  all  knowledge, 
giving  it  eternal  form ;  Rome,  mistress  of  the  world ;  Car- 
thage, famed  for  her  audacious  geographical  discoveries, 
and  Marseilles,  which  had  made  western  Europe  share 
in  the  civilization  of  the  Greeks,  scattering  it  along  the 
lower  coast  from  settlement  to  settlement,  even  to  the, 
Straits  of  Cadiz. 

A  brother  of  the  Oceanides,  the  prudent  Nereus,  used 
to  reign  in  the  depths  of  the  Mediterranean.  This  son  of 
Oceanus  had  a  blue  beard,  green  eyes,  and  bunches  of 
sea  rushes  on  his  eyebrows  and  breast.  His  fifty  daugh- 
ters, the  Nereids,  bore  his  orders  across  the  waves  or 
frolicked  around  the  ships,  splashing  in  the  faces  of  the 
rowers  the  foam  tossed  up  by  their  arms.  But  the  sons 
of  Father  Time,  on  conquering  the  giant,  had  reappor- 
tioned  the  world,  determining  its  rulers  by  lot.  Zeus  re- 
mained lord  of  the  land,  the  obscure  Hades,  lord  of  the 
underworld,  reigned  in  the  Plutonic  abysses,  and  Posei- 
don became  master  of  the  blue  surfaces. 

Nereus,  the  dispossessed  monarch,  fled  to  a  cavern  of 
the  Hellenic  sea  in  order  to  live  the  calm  existence  of  the 
philosopher-counselor  of  mankind,  and  Poseidon  in- 
stalled himself  in  the  mother-of-pearl  palaces  with  his 
white  steeds  tossing  helmets  of  bronze  and  manes  of 
gold. 

His  amorous  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fifty  Mediterra- 
nean princesses,  the  Nereids,  who  took  their  names  from 
the  aspect  of  the  waves — the  Blue,  the  Green,  the  Swift, 
the  Gentle.  .  .  .  "Nymphs  of  the  green  abysses  with 
faces  fresh  as  a  rosebud,  fragrant  virgins  that  took  the 
forms  of  all  the  monsters  of  the  deep,"  sang  the  Orphic 
hymn  on  the  Grecian  shore.  And* Poseidon  singled  out 


44  MARE  NOSTRUM 

among  them  all  the  Nereid  of  the  Foam,  the  white  Am- 
phitrite  who  refused  to  accept  his  love. 

She  knew  about  this  new  god.  The  coasts  were  peo- 
pled with  cyclops  like  Polyphemus,  with  frightful  mon- 
sters born  of  the  union  of  Olympian  goddesses  and  simple 
mortals ;  but  an  obliging  dolphin  came  and  went,  carrying 
messages  between  Poseidon  and  the  Nereid,  until,  over- 
whelmed by  the  eloquence  of  this  restless  rover  of  the 
wave,  Amphitrite  agreed  to  become  the  wife  of  the  god, 
and  the  Mediterranean  appeared  to  take  on  still  greater 
beauty. 

She  was  the  aurora  that  shows  her  rosy  finger-tips 
through  the  immense  cleft  between  sky  and  sea,  the 
warm  hour  of  midday  that  makes  the  waters  drowsy 
under  its  robe  of  restless  gold,  the  bifurcated  tongue 
of  foam  that  laps  the  two  faces  of  the  hissing  prow,  the 
aroma-laden  breeze  that  like  a  virgin's  breath  swells  the 
sail,  the  compassionate  kiss  that  lulls  the  drowned  to 
rest,  without  wrath  and  without  resistance,  before  sinking 
forever  into  the  fathomless  abyss. 

Her  husband — Poseidon  on  the  Greek  coast  and  Nep- 
tune on  the  Latin — on  mounting  his  chariot,  used  to 
awaken  the  tempest.  The  brazen-hoofed  horses  with 
their  stamping  would  paw  up  the  huge  waves  and  swal- 
low up  the  ships.  The  tritons  of  his  cortege  would  send 
forth  from  their  white  shells  the  bellowing  blasts  that 
snap  off  the  masts  like  reeds. 

Of  mater  Amphitrite!  .  .  .  and  Ferragut  would  de- 
scribe her  as  though  she  were  just  passing  before  his 
eyes.  Sometimes  when  swimming  around  the  promon- 
tories, feeling  himself  enveloped  like  primitive  man  in 
the  blind  forces  of  Nature,  he  used  to  believe  that  he  saw 
the  white  goddess  issuing  forth  from  the  rocks  with  all 
her  smiling  train  after  a  rest  in  some  marine  cave. 

A  shell  of  pearl  was  her  chariot  and  six  dolphins  har- 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  45 

nessed  with  purpling  coral  used  to  draw  it  along.  The 
tritons,  her  sons,  handled  the  reins.  The  Naiads,  their 
sisters,  lashed  the  sea  with  their  scaly  tails,  lifting  their 
mermaid  bodies  wrapped  in  the  magnificence  of  their 
sea-green  tresses  between  whose  ringlets  might  be  seen 
their  heaving  bosoms.  White  seagulls,  cooing  like  the 
doves  of  Aphrodite,  fluttered  around  their  nude  sea- 
queen,  serenely  contemplating  them  from  her  movable 
throne,  crowned  with  pearls  and  phosphorescent  stars 
drawn  from  the  depths  of  her  dominion.  White  as  the 
cloud,  white  as  the  sail,  white  as  the  foam,  entirely,  daz- 
zlingly  white  was  her  fair  majesty  except  where  a  rosy 
blush  tinted  the  petal-like  skin  of  her  heels  or  her  bosom. 

The  entire  history  of  European  man — forty  centuries 
of  wars,  emigrations,  and  racial  impact — was  due,  ac- 
cording to  the  doctor,  to  the  desire  of  possessing  this 
harmoniously  framed  sea,  of  enjoying  the  transparency 
of  its  atmosphere  and  the  vivacity  of  its  light. 

The  men  from  the  North  who  needed  the  burning  log 
and  alcoholic  drink  in  order  to  defend  their  life  from 
the  clutches  of  the  cold,  were  always  thinking  of  these 
Mediterranean  shores.  All  their  warlike  or  pacific  move- 
ments were  with  intent  to  descend  from  the  coasts  of  the 
glacial  seas  to  the  beaches  of  the  warm  mare  nostrum. 
They  were  eager  to  gain  possession  of  the  country  where 
the  sacred  olive  alternates  its  stiff  old  age  with  the  joyous 
vineyard ;  where  the  pine  rears  its  cupola  and  the  cypress 
erects  its  minaret.  They  longed  to  dream  under  the  per- 
fumed snow  of  the  interminable  orange  groves;  to  be 
masters  of  the  sheltered  valleys  where  the  myrtle  and  the 
jasmine  spice  the  salty  air ;  where  the  aloe  and  the  cactus 
grow  between  the  stones  of  extinct  volcanoes ;  where  the 
mountains  of  marble  extend  their  white  veins  down  even 
into  the  depths  of  the  sea  and  refract  the  African  heat 
emitted  by  the  opposite  coast. 


46  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  South  had  replied  to  the  invasion  from  the  North 
with  defensive  wars  that  had  extended  even  into  the 
center  of  Europe.  And  thus  history  had  gone  on  repeat- 
ing itself  with  the  same  flux  and  reflux  of  human  waves 
— mankind  struggling  for  thousands  of  years  to  gain  or 
hold  the  blue  vault  of  Amphitrite. 

The  Mediterranean  peoples  were  to  Ferragut  the  aris- 
tocracy of  humanity.  Its  potent  climate  had  tempered 
mankind  as  in  no  other  part  of  the  planet,  giving  him  a 
dry  and  resilient  power.  Tanned  and  bronzed  by  the 
profound  absorption  of  the  sun  and  the  energy  of  the 
atmosphere,  its  navigators  were  transmuted  into  pure 
metal.  The  men  from  the  North  were  stronger,  but  less 
robust,  less  acclimitable  than  the  Catalan  sailor,  the  Pro- 
vengal,  the  Genoese  or  the  Greek.  The  sailors  of  the 
Mediterranean  made  themselves  at  home  in  all  parts  of 
the  world.  Upon  their  sea  man  had  developed  his  high- 
est energies.  Ancient  Greece  had  converted  human  flesh 
into  spiritual  steel. 

Exactly  the  same  landscapes  and  races  bordered  the 
two  shores.  The  mountains  and  the  flowers  on  both 
shores  were  identical.  The  Catalan,  the  Provencal  and 
the  South  Italian  were  more  like  the  inhabitants  of  the 
African  coast  than  their  kindred  who  lived  inland  back 
of  them.  This  fraternity  had  shown  itself  instinctively 
in  the  thousand-year  war.  The  Berber  pirates,  the  Geno- 
ese sailors,  the  Spaniards,  and  the  Knights  of  Malta  used 
implacably  to  behead  each  other  on  the  decks  of  their 
galleys  and,  upon  becoming  conquerors,  would  respect  the 
life  of  their  prisoners,  treating  them  like  gentlemen.  The 
Admiral  Barbarossa,  eighty- four  years  of  age,  used  to  call 
Doria,  his  eternal  rival  nearly  ninety  years  old,  "my 
brother."  The  Grand  Master  of  Malta  clasped  the  hand 
of  the  terrible  Dragut  upon  finding  him  his  captive. 

The  Mediterranean  man,  fixed  on  the  shores  that  gave 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  47 

him  birth,  was  accustomed  to  accept  all  the  changes  of 
history,  as  the  mollusks  fastened  to  the  rocks  endure  the 
tempests.  For  him  the  only  important  thing  was  not  to 
lose  sight  of  his  blue  sea.  The  Spaniard  used  to  pull  an 
oar  on  the  Liburnian  felucca,  the  Christian  would  join 
the  crews  of  the  Saracen  ships  of  the  Middle  Ages; 
the  subjects  of  Charles  V  would  pass  through  the  fortunes 
of  war  from  the  galleys  of  the  Cross  to  those  of  the  Cres- 
cent, and  would  end  by  becoming  rulers  of  Algiers,  rich 
captains  of  the  sea,  or  by  making  their  names  famous  as 
renegades. 

In  the  eighth  century  the  inhabitants  of  the  Valencian 
coast  united  with  the  Andalusian  Moors  to  carry  the  war 
to  the  ends  of  the  Mediterranean  and  to  the  island  of 
Crete,  taking  possession  of  it  and  giving  it  the  name  of 
Candia.  This  nest  of  pirates  was  the  terror  of  Byzan- 
tium, taking  Salonica  by  assault  and  selling  as  slaves  the 
patricians  and  most  important  ladies  of  the  realm.  Years 
afterwards,  when  dislodged  from  Candia,  the  Valencian 
adventurers  returned  to  their  native  shores  and  there  es- 
tablished a  town  in  a  fertile  valley,  giving  it  the  name  of 
the  distant  island  which  was  changed  to  Gandia. 

Every  type  of  human  vigor  had  sprung  from  the  Medi- 
terranean race, — fine,  sharp  and  dry  as  flint,  doing  good 
and  evil  on  a  large  scale  with  the  exaggeration  of  an  ar- 
dent character  that  discounts  halfway  measures  and  leaps 
from  duplicity  to  the  greatest  extremes  of  generosity. 
Ulysses  was  the  father  of  them  all,  a  discreet  and  pru- 
dent hero,  yet  at  the  same  time  complex  and  malicious. 
So  was  old  Cadmus  with  his  Phoenician  miter  and  curled 
beard,  a  great  old  sea-wolf,  scattering  by  means  of  his 
various  adventures  the  art  of  writing  and  the  first  notions 
of  commerce. 

In  one  of  the  Mediterranean  islands  Hannibal  was 
born,  and  twenty  centuries  after,  in  another  of  them,  the 


48  MARE  NOSTRUM 

son  of  a  lawyer  without  briefs  embarked  for  France,  with 
no  other  outfit  than  his  cadet's  uniform,  in  order  to  make 
famous  his  name  of  Napoleon. 

Over  the  Mediterranean  waves  had  sailed  Roger  de 
Lauria,  knight-errant  of  vast  tracts  of  sea,  who  wished 
to  clothe  even  the  fishes  with  the  colors  of  Aragon.  A 
visionary  of  obscure  origin  named  Columbus  had  recog- 
nized as  his  country  the  republic  of  Genoa.  A  smuggler 
from  the  coasts  of  Laguria"  came  to  be  Messina,  the 
marshal  beloved  by  Victory,  and  the  last  personage  of 
this  stock  of  Mediterranean  heroes  associated  with  the 
heroes  of  fabulous  times  was  a  sailor  from  Nice,  simple 
and  romantic,  a  warrior  called  Garibaldi,  an  heroic  tenor 
of  all  seas  and  lands  who  cast  over  his  century  the  re- 
flection of  his  red  shirt,  repeating  on  the  coast  of  Mar- 
seilles the  remote  epic  of  the  Argonauts. 

Then  Ferragut  summed  up  the  various  defects  of  his 
race.  Some  had  been  bandits  and  others  saints,  out  none 
mediocre.  Their  most  audacious  undertakings  had  much 
about  them  that  was  prudent  and  practical.  When  they 
devoted  themselves  to  business  they  were  at  the  same 
time  serving  civilization.  In  them  the  hero  and  the  trader 
were  so  intermingled  that  it  was  impossible  to  discern 
where  one  ended  and  the  other  began.  They  had  been 
pirates  and  cruel  men,  but  the  navigators  from  the  foggy 
seas  when  imitating  the  Mediterranean  discoveries  in 
other  continents  had  not  shown  themselves  any  more 
gentle  or  loyal. 

After  these  conversations,  Ulysses  felt  greater  esteem 
for  the  old  pottery  and  the  shabby  little  figures  that 
adorned  his  uncle's  bedroom. 

They  were  objects  vomited  up  by  the  sea,  Grecian 
amphoras  wrested  from  the  shells  of  mollusks  after  a 
submarine  interment  centuries  long.  The  deep  waters 
had  embossed  these  petrified  ornaments  with  strange  ar- 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  49 

abesques  that  made  one  think  of  the  art  of  another  planet, 
and,  twined  in  with  the  pottery  that  had  held  the  wine 
and  water  of  a  shipwrecked  Liburnian  felucca,  were  bits 
of  rope  hardened  by  limey  deposit  and  flukes  of  anchors 
whose  metal  was  disintegrating  into  reddish  scales.  Va- 
rious little  statues  corroded  by  the  salt  sea  inspired  in  the 
boy  as  much  admiration  as  his  grandfather's  frigates.  He 
laughed  and  trembled  before  these  Cabiri  coming  from  the 
Phoenician  or  Carthaginian  biremes, — grotesque  and  ter- 
rible gods  that  contracted  their  faces  with  grimaces  of 
lust  and  ferocity. 

Some  of  these  muscular  and  bearded  marine  divinities 
bore  a  remote  resemblance  to  his  uncle.  Ulysses  had 
overheard  certain  strange  conversations  among  the  fish- 
ermen and  had  noticed,  besides,  the  precipitation  of 
the  women  and  their  uneasy  glances  when  they  found 
the  doctor  near  them  in  a  solitary  part  of  the  coast. 
Only  the  presence  of  his  nephew  had  made  them  recover 
tranquillity  and  check  their  step. 

At  times  the  sea  seemed  to  craze  him  with  gusts  of 
amorous  fury.  He  was  Poseidon  rising  up  unexpectedly 
on  the  banks  in  order  to  surprise  goddesses  and  mortals. 
The  women  of  the  Marina  ran  away  as  terrified  as  those 
Greek  princesses  on  the  painted  vases  when  surprised, 
washing  their  robes,  by  the  apparition  of  a  passionate  tri- 
ton. 

Some  nights  at  the  hour  when  the  lighthouses  were 
beginning  to  pierce  the  coming  dusk  with  their  fresh 
shafts  of  light,  he  would  become  melancholy  and,  for- 
getting the  difference  in  their  age,  would  talk  with  his 
nephew  as  though  he  were  a  sailor  companion. 

He  regretted  never  having  married.  ...  He  might 
have  had  a  son  by  this  time.  He  had  known  many 
women  of  all  colors — white,  red,  yellow,  and  bronze — but 


50  MARE  NOSTRUM 

only  once  had  he  really  been  in  love,  very  far  away  on 
the  other  side  of  the  planet,  in  the  port  of  Valparaiso. 

He  could  still  see  in  imagination  a  certain  graceful 
Chilean  maiden,  wrapped  in  her  great  black  veil  like  the 
ladies  of  the  Calderonian  theater,  showing  only  one  of 
her  dark  and  liquid  eyes,  pale  and  slender,  speaking  in  a 
plaintive  voice. 

She  enjoyed  love-songs,  always  provided  that  they  were 
sung  "with  great  sadness";  and  Ferragut  would  devour 
her  with  his  eyes  while  she  plucked  the  guitar,  chanting 
the  song  of  Malek-Adhel  and  other  romances  about 
"Roses,  sighs  and  Moors  of  Granada,"  that  from  child- 
hood the  doctor  had  heard  sung  by  the  Berbers  of  his 
country.  The  simple  attempt  at  taking  one  of  her  hands 
always  provoked  her  modest  resistance.  .  .  .  "That,  then. 
.  .  ."  She  was  ready  to  marry  him;  she  wished  to  see 
Spain.  .  .  .  And  the  doctor  might  have  fulfilled  her 
wishes  had  not  a  good  soul  informed  him  that  in  later 
hours  of  the  night,  others  were  accustomed  to  come  in 
turns  to  hear  her  romantic  solos.  .  .  .  Ah,  these  women ! 
and  then,  on  recalling  the  finale  of  his  trans-oceanic  idyl, 
Ferragut  would  become  reconciled  to  his  celibacy. 

Late  in  the  Fall  the  notary  had  to  go  in  person  to 
the  Marina  to  make  his  brother  give  Ulysses  up.  The  boy 
held  the  same  opinion  as  did  his  uncle.  The  very  idea 
of  losing  the  winter  fishing,  the  cold  sunny  morning,  the 
spectacle  of  the  great  tempests,  just  for  the  silly  reason 
that  the  Institute  had  commenced,  and  he  must  study  for 
his  bachelor's  degree !  .  .  . 

The  following  year  Dona  Cristina  tried  to  prevent  the 
Triton's  carrying  off  her  son,  since  he  could  learn  noth- 
ing but  bad  words  and  boastful  bullying  in  the  old  home 
of  the  Ferraguts.  And  trumping  up  the  necessity  of  see- 
ing her  own  family,  she  left  the  notary  alone  in  Valencia, 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  51 

going  with  her  boy  to  spend  the  summer  on  the  coast 
of  Catalunia  near  the  French  frontier. 

This  was  Ulysses'  first  important  journey.  In  Bar- 
celona he  became  acquainted  with  his  uncle,  the  rich  and 
talented  financier  of  the  Blanes  family, — one  of  his 
mother's  brothers,  proprietor  of  a  great  hardware  shop 
situated  in  one  of  the  damp,  narrow  and  crowded  streets 
that  ran  into  the  Rambla.  He  soon  came  to  know  other 
maternal  uncles  in  a  village  near  the  Cape  of  Creus. 
This  promontory  with  its  wild  coasts  reminded  him  of 
that  other  one  where  the  Triton  lived.  The  first  Hellenic 
sailors  had  also  founded  a  city  here,  and  the  sea  had  also 
cast  up  amphoras,  little  statues  and  petrified  bits  of  iron. 

The  Blanes  family  had  gone  much  to  sea.  They  loved 
it  as  intensely  as  did  the  doctor,  but  with  a  cold  and 
silent  love,  appreciating  it  less  for  its  beauty  than  for  the 
profits  which  it  offered  to  the  fortunate.  Their  trips  had 
been  to  America,  in  their  own  sailing  vessels,  importing 
sugar  from  Havana  and  corn  from  Buenos  Ayres.  The 
Mediterranean  was  for  them  only  a  port  that  they  crossed 
carelessly  on  departure  and  arrival.  None  of  them  knew 
the  white  Amphitrite  even  by  name. 

Moreover,  they  did  not  have  the  devil-may-care  and 
romantic  appearance  of  the  bachelor  of  the  Marina,  ready 
to  live  in  the  water  like  an  amphibian.  They  were  gen- 
tlemen of  the  coast  who,  having  retired  from  the  sea, 
were  entrusting  their  barks  to  captains  who  had  been  their 
pilots, — middle  class  citizens  who  never  laid  aside  the 
cravat  and  silk  cap  that  were  the  symbols  of  their  high 
position  in  their  natal  town. 

The  gathering-place  of  the  rich  was  the  Athenaeum, — a 
society  that  in  spite  of  its  title  offered  no  other  reading 
matter  than  two  Catalunian  periodicals.  A  large  telescope 
mounted  on  a  tripod  before  the  door  used  to  fill  the  club 
members  with  pride.  For  the  uncles  of  Ulysses,  it  was 


52  MARE  NOSTRUM 

enough  merely  to  put  one  eyebrow  to  the  glass  to  be  able 
to  state  immediately  the  class  and  nationality  of  the  ship 
that  was  slipping  along  over  the  distant  horizon  line. 
These  veterans  of  the  sea  were  accustomed  to  speak  only 
of  the  freight  cargoes,  of  the  thousands  and  thousands 
of  dollars  gained  in  other  times  with  only  one  round  trip, 
and  of  the  terrible  rivalry  of  the  steamship. 

Ulysses  kept  hoping  in  vain  that  sometimes  they  would 
allude  to  the  Nereids  and  other  poetic  beings  that  the 
Triton  had  conjured  around  his  promontory.  The  Blanes 
had  never  seen  these  extraordinary  creatures.  Their  seas 
contained  fish  only.  They  were  cold,  economical  men  of 
few  words,  friends  of  order  and  social  preferment.  Their 
nephew  suspected  that  they  had  the  courage  of  men  of 
the  sea  but  without  boasting  or  aggressiveness;  their 
heroism  was  that  of  traders  capable  of  suffering  all  kinds 
of  adventures  provided  their  stock  ran  no  risks,  but  be- 
coming wild  beasts  if  any  one  attacked  their  riches. 

The  members  of  the  Athenaeum  were  all  old,  the  only 
masculine  beings  in  the  village.  Besides  them  there  were 
only  the  carbineers  installed  in  the  barracks  and  various 
calkers  making  their  mallets  resound  on  the  hull  of  a 
schooner  ordered  by  the  Blanes  brothers. 

All  the  active  men  were  on  the  sea.  Some  were  sailing 
to  America  as  crew  of  the  brigs  and  barks  of  the  Catalu- 
nian  coast.  The  more  timid  and  unfortunate  ones  were 
always  fishing.  Others,  more  valiant  and  anxious  for 
ready  money,  had  become  smugglers  on  the  French  coast 
whose  shores  began  on  the  other  side  of  the  promon- 
tory. 

In  the  village  there  were  only  women,  women  of  all 
kinds: — women  seated  before  their  doors,  making  lace 
on  great  cylindrical  pillows  on  their  knees,  along  whose 
length  their  bobbins  wove  strips  of  beautiful  openwork, 
or  grouped  on  the  street  corners  in  front  of  the  lonely  sea 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  53 

where  their  men  were,  or  speaking  with  an  electric  nerv- 
ousness that  oftentimes  would  break  out  suddenly  in 
noisy  tempests. 

Only  the  parish  priest,  whose  fishing  recreations  and 
official  existence  were  embittered  by  their  constant  quar- 
rels, understood  the  feminine  irritability  which  embroiled 
the  village.  Alone  and  having  to  live  incessantly  in  such 
close  contact,  the  women  had  come  to  hate  each  other  as 
do  passengers  isolated  on  a  boat  for  many  months.  Be- 
sides, their  husbands  had  accustomed  them  to  the  use  of 
coffee,  the  seaman's  drink,  and  they  tried  to  beguile  their 
tedium  with  strong  cups  of  the  thick  liquid. 

A  common  interest,  nevertheless,  united  these  women 
miraculously  when  living  alone.  When  the  carbineers  in- 
spected the  houses  in  search  of  contraband  goods  smug- 
gled in  by  the  men,  the  Amazons  worked  off  their  nervous 
energy  in  hiding  the  illegal  merchandise,  making  it  pass 
from  one  place  of  concealment  to  another  with  the  cun- 
ning of  savages. 

Whenever  the  government  officers  began  to  suspect  that 
certain  packages  had  gone  to  hide  themselves  in  the  cem- 
etery, they  would  find  there  only  some  empty  graves,  and 
in  the  bottom  of  them  a  few  cigars  between  skulls  that 
were  mockingly  stuck  up  in  the  ground.  The  chief  of 
the  barracks  did  not  dare  to  inspect  the  church,  but  he 
looked  contemptuously  upon  Mosen  Jordi,  the  priest,  as  a 
simpleton  quite  capable  of  permitting  tobacco  to  be  hi<d- 
den  behind  the  altars  in  exchange  for  the  privilege  of 
fishing  in  peace. 

The  rich  people  lived  with  their  backs  turned  on  the 
village,  contemplating  the  blue  expanse  upon  which  were 
erected  the  wooden  houses  that  represented  all  their  for- 
tune. In  the  summer-time  the  sight  of  the  smooth  and 
brilliant  Mediterranean  made  them  recall  the  dangers  of 
the  winter.  They  spoke  with  religious  terror  of  the 


54  MARE  NOSTRUM 

land  breeze,  the  wind  from  the  Pyrenees,  the  Tramon- 
tana  that  oftentimes  snatched  edifices  from  their  bases 
and  had  overturned  entire  trains  in  the  nearby  station. 
Furthermore,  on  the  other  side  of  the  promontory  began 
the  terrible  Gulf  of  Lyons.  Upon  its  surface,  not  more 
than  ninety  yards  in  extent,  the  waters  driven  by  the 
strong  sea  winds  often  became  so  rough,  and  raised  up 
waves  so  high  and  so  solid  that  upon  clashing  together 
and  finding  no  intermediate  space  upon  which  to  fall,  they 
piled  one  upon  another,  forming  regular  towers. 

This  gulf  was  the  most  terrible  of  the  Mediterranean. 
The  transatlantic  liners  returning  from  a  good  voyage  to 
the  other  hemisphere  used  here  to  tremble  with  a  pre- 
monition of  danger  and  sometimes  even  turned  back. 
The  captains  who  had  just  crossed  the  great  Atlantic 
would  here  furrow  their  brows  with  uneasiness. 

From  the  door  of  the  Athenaeum  the  experts  used  tc 
point  out  the  Latin  sailboats  that  were  about  to  double 
the  promontory.  They  were  merchant  vessels  such  as  thfe 
elder  Ferragut  had  commanded,  embarkations  from  Va< 
lencia  that  were  bringing  wine  to  Cette  and  fruits  to 
Marseilles.  Upon  seeing  the  blue  surface  of  the  Gulf 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Cape  with  no  other  roughness 
than  that  of  a  long  and  infinitely  heavy  swell,  the  Valen- 
cians  would  exclaim  happily : 

"Let  us  cross  quickly,  while  the  lion  sleeps." 

Ulysses  had  one  friend,  the  secretary  of  the  city-hall, 
and  the  only  inhabitant  that  had  any  books  in  his  house. 
Treated  by  the  rich  with  a  certain  contempt,  the  official 
used  to  seek  the  boy's  company  because  he  was  the  only 
creature  who  would  listen  to  him  attentively. 

He  adored  the  mare  nostrum  as  much  as  Doctor  Fer- 
ragut, but  his  enthusiasm  was  not  concerned  with  the 
Phoenician  and  Egyptian  ships  whose  keels  had  first 
plowed  these  waves.  He  was  equally  indifferent  to  Gre- 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  55 

cian  and  Carthaginian  Triremes,  Roman  warships,  and 
the  monstrous  galleys  of  the  Sicilian  tyrants, — palaces 
moved  by  oars,  with  statues,  fountains  and  gardens.  That 
which  most  interested  him  was  the  Mediterranean  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  that  of  the  kings  of  Aragon,  the  Catalunian 
Sea.  And  the  poor  secretary  would  give  long  daily  dis- 
sertations about  them  in  order  to  pique  the  local  pride 
of  his  juvenile  listener. 

One  day  after  dilating  at  length  on  Roger  de  Lauria 
and  the  Catalan  navy,  he  wound  up  his  tedious  history 
by  telling  the  little  fellow  how  Alfonso  V,  his  brother  the 
King  of  Navarre,  and  all  his  cortege  of  magnates,  had 
remained  prisoners  of  the  Republic  of  Genoa,  which,  ter- 
rified by  the  importance  of  its  royal  prey,  had  entrusted 
the  captives  to  the  guard  of  the  Duke  of  Milan.  .  .  .  But 
the  monarchs  easily  came  to  an  understanding  in  order 
to  deceive  the  democratic  governments,  and  the  Milanese 
sovereign  released  the  King  of  Aragon  with  all  his  suite. 
Thereupon  he  immediately  blockaded  Genoa  with  an 
enormous  fleet.  The  Provengal  navy  came  promptly  to 
the  relief  of  its  neighbors,  and  the  Aragonese  King 
forced  the  port  of  Marseilles,  bearing  away  as  trophy 
the  chains  that  closed  its  entrance. 

Ulysses  nodded  affirmatively.  The  sailor  king  had  de- 
posited these  chains  in  the  cathedral  of  Valencia.  His 
godfather,  the  poet,  had  pointed  them  out  to  him  in  a 
Gothic  chapel,  forming  a  garland  of  iron  over  the  black 
hewn  stones. 

The  Catalan  navy  still  continued  to  dominate  the  Medi- 
terranean commercially,  adding  to  its  ancient  vessels  great 
galleons,  lighter  galleys,  caravels,  cattle  boats,  and  other 
ships  of  the  period. 

"But  Christopher  Columbus,"  concluded  the  Catalan 
sadly,  "discovered  the  Indies,  thereby  giving  a  death  blow 
to  the  maritime  riches  of  the  Mediterranean.  Besides, 


56  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Aragon  and  Castile  became  united  and  their  life  and 
power  were  then  concentrated  in  the  center  of  the  Pen- 
insula, far  from  the  sea." 

Had  Barcelona  been  the  capital  of  Spain,  Catalunia 
would  have  preserved  the  Mediterranean  domination. 
Had  Lisbon  been  the  capital,  the  Spanish  colonial  realm 
would  have  developed  into  something  organic  and  solid 
with  a  robust  life.  But  what  could  you  expect  of  a  na- 
tion which  had  stuck  its  head  into  a  pillow  of  yellow 
interior  steppes,  the  furthest  possible  from  the  world's 
highways,  showing  only  its  feet  to  the  waves !  .  .  . 

The  Catalan  would  always  end  by  speaking  sadly  of 
the  decadence  of  the  Mediterranean  marine.  Everything 
that  was  pleasing  to  his  tastes  made  him  hark  back  to  the 
good  old  time  of  the  domination  of  the  Mediterranean 
by  the  Catalan  marine.  One  day  he  offered  Ulysses  a 
sweet  and  perfumed  wine. 

"It  is  Malvasian,  the  first  stock  the  Almogavars  brought 
here  from  Greece." 

Then  he  said  in  order  to  flatter  the  boy : 

"It  was  a  citizen  of  Valencia,  Ramon  Muntaner,  who 
wrote  of  the  expeditions  of  the  Catalans  and  Aragonese 
against  Constantinople." 

The  mere  recollection  of  this  novel-like  adventure,  the 
most  unheard-of  in  history,  used  to  fill  him  with  enthusi- 
asm, and,  in  passing,  he  paid  highest  tribute  to  the  Almo- 
gavar  chronicler,  a  rude  Homer  in  song,  Ulysses  and 
Nestor  in  council,  and  Achilles  in  hard  action. 

Dona  Cristina's  impatience  to  rejoin  her  husband  and 
to  return  to  the  comforts  of  her  well-regulated  household 
finally  carried  Ulysses  away  from  this  life  by  the  coast. 

For  many  years  thereafter  he  saw  no  other  sea  than 
the  Gulf  of  Valencia.  The  notary,  under  various  pre- 
texts, contrived  to  prevent  the  doctor's  again  carrying 
off  his  nephew ;  and  the  Triton  made  his  trips  to  Valencia 


MATER  AMPHITRITE  57 

less  frequently,  rebelling  against  all  the  inconveniences 
and  dangers  of  these  terrestrial  adventures. 

And  Labarta,  when  occupied  with  the  future  of  Ulys- 
ses, used  to  take  on  a  certain  air  of  a  good-natured  regent 
charged  with  the  guardianship  of  a  little  prince.  The  boy 
appeared  to  belong  to  them  more  than  to  his  own  father ; 
his  studies  and  his  future  destiny  filled  completely  their 
after-dinner  conversations  when  the  doctor  was  in  town, 

Don  Esteban  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  in  annoying  his, 
brother  by  eulogizing  the  sedentary  and  prosperous  life. 

Over  there  on  the  coasts  of  Catalunia  lived  his  brothers- 
in-law,  the  Blanes,  genuine  wolves  of  the  sea.  The  doctor 
would  not  be  able  to  contradict  that.  Very  well,  then, — 
their  sons  were  in  Barcelona,  some  as  business  clerks, 
others  making  a  name  for  themselves  in  the  office  of 
their  rich  uncle.  They  were  all  sailors'  sons  and  yet 
they  had  completely  freed  themselves  from  the  sea.  Their 
business  was  entirely  on  terra  firma.  Only  crazyheads 
could  think  of  ships  and  adventures. 

The  Triton  used  to  smile  humbly  before  such  pointed 
allusions,  and  exchange  glances  with  his  nephew. 

A  secret  existed  between  the  two.  Ulysses,  who  was 
finishing  his  studies  for  a  bachelor's  degree,  was  at  the 
same  time  taking  the  courses  of  pilotage  at  the  institute. 
Two  years  would  be  sufficient  for  the  completion  of  these 
latter  studies.  The  uncle  had  provided  the  matriculation 
fees  and  the  books,  besides  recommending  the  boy  to  a 
former  sailor  comrade. 


CHAPTER  III 

PATER  OCEANUS 

WHEN  Don  Esteban  died  very  suddenly,  his  eighteen- 
year-old  son  was  still  studying  in  the  university. 

In  his  latter  days  the  notary  had  begun  to  suspect  that 
Ulysses  Was  not  going  to  be  the  celebrated  jurist  that  he 
had  dreamed.  He  had  a  way  of  cutting  classes  in  order 
to  pass  the  morning  in  the  harbor,  exercising  with  the 
oars.  If  he  entered  the  university,  the  beadles  were  on 
their  guard  fearing  his  long-reaching  hands:  for  he  al- 
ready fancied  himself  a  sailor  and  liked  to  imitate  the 
men  of  the  sea  who,  accustomed  to  contend  with  the  ele- 
ments, considered  a  quarrel  with  a  man  as  a  very  slight 
affair.  Alternating  violently  between  study  and  laziness, 
he  was  laboriously  approaching  the  end  of  his  course 
when  neuralgia  of  the  heart  carried  off  the  notary. 

Upon  coming  out  from  the  stupefaction  of  her  grief, 
Dona  Cristina  looked  around  her  with  aversion.  Why 
should  she  linger  on  in  Valencia?  Since  she  could  no 
longer  be  with  the  man  who  had  brought  her  to  this 
country,  she  wanted  to  return  to  her  own  people.  The 
poet  Labarta  would  look  after  her  properties  that  were 
not  so  valuable  nor  numerous  as  the  income  of  the  notary 
had  led  them  to  suppose.  Don  Esteban  had  suffered  great 
losses  in  extravagant  business  speculations  good-naturedly 
accepted,  but  there  was  still  left  a  fortune  sufficient  to 
enable  his  wife  to  live  as  an  independent  widow  among 
her  relatives  in  Barcelona. 

In  arranging  her  new  existence,  the  poor  lady  en- 

58 


PATER  OCEANUS  '.     .   .  59 

countered  no  opposition  except  the  rebelliousness  of 
Ulysses.  He  refused  to  continue  his  college  course  and 
he  wished  to  go  to  sea,  saying  that  for  that  reason  he  had 
studied  to  become  a  pilot.  In  vain  Dona  Cristina  en- 
treated the  aid  of  relatives  and  friends,  excluding  the 
Triton,  whose  response  she  could  easily  guess.  The  rich 
brother  from  Barcelona  was  brief  and  affirmative^  "But 
wouldn't  that  bring  him  in  the  money  ?"  .  .  .  The  Blanes 
of  the  coast  showed  a  gloomy  fatalism.  It  would  be 
useless  to  oppose  the  lad  if  he  felt  that  to  be  his  voca- 
tion. The  sea  had  a  tight  clutch  upon  those  wh^followed 
it,  and  there  was  no  power  on  earth  that  could  dissuade 
him.  On  that  account  they  who  were  already  old  were 
not  listening  to  their  sons  who  were  trying  to  tempt  them 
with  the  convenience  of  life  in  the  capital.  They  nteded 
to  live  near  the  coast  in  agreeable  contact  with  the 
dark  and  ponderous  monster  which  had  rocked  them  so 
maternally  when  it  might  just  as  easily  have  dashed  them 
to  pieces. 

The  only  one  who  protested  was  Labarta.  A  sailor? 
.  .  .  that  might  be  a  very  good  thing,  but  a  warlike 
sailor,  an  official  of  the  Royal  Armada.  And  in  his  mind's 
eye  the  poet  could  see  his  godson  clad  in  all  the  splen- 
dors of  naval  elegance, — a  blue  jacket  with  gold  buttons 
for  every  day,  and  for  holiday  attire  a  coat  trimmed  with 
galloon  and  red  trappings,  a  pointed  hat,  a  sword.  .  .  . 

Ulysses  shrugged  his  shoulders  before  such  grandeur. 
He  was  too  old  now  to  enter  the  naval  school.  Besides 
he  wanted  to  sail  over  all  oceans,  and  the  officers  of  the 
navy  only  had  occasion  to  cruise  from  one  port  to  another* 
like  the  people  of  the  coast  trade,  or  even  passed  years 
seated  in  the  cabinet  of  the  naval  executive.  If  he  had 
to  grow  old  in  an  office,  he  would  rather  take  up  his 
father's  profession  of  notary. 

After  seeing  Dona  Cristina  well  "established  in  Barce-^ 


60  MARE  NOSTRUM 

lona,  surrounded  with  a  cortege  of  nephews  fawning 
upon  the  rich  aunt  from  Valencia,  her  son  embarked  as 
apprentice  on  a  transatlantic  boat  which  was  making 
regular  trips  to  Cuba  and  the  United  States.  Thus  be- 
gan the  seafaring  life  of  Ulysses  Ferragut,  which  termi- 
nated only  with  his  death. 

The  pride  of  the  family  placed  him  on  a  luxurious 
steamer,  a  mail-packet  full  of  passengers,  a  floating  hotel 
on  which  the  officials  were  something  like  the  managers 
of  the  Palace  Hotel,  while  the  real  responsibility  de- 
volved upon  the  engineers,  who  were  always  going  below, 
and  upon  returning  to  the  light,  invariably  remained  mod- 
estly in  a  second  place,  according  to  a  hieratical  law  an- 
terior to  the  progress  of  mechanics. 

He  crossed  the  ocean  several  times,  as  do  those  mak- 
ing a  land  journey  at  the  full  speed  of  an  express  train. 
The  august  calm  of  the  sea  was  lost  in  the  throb  of  the 
screws  and  in  the  deafening  roar  of  the  machinery. 
However  blue  the  sky  might  be,  it  was  always  darkened 
by  the  floating  crepe  band  from  the  smokestacks.  He 
envied  the  leisurely  sailboats  that  the  liner  was  always 
leaving  behind.  They  were  like  reflective  wayfarers 
who  saturate  themselves  with  the  country  atmosphere  and 
commune  deeply  with  its  soul.  The  people  of  the  steamer 
lived  like  terrestrial  travelers  who  sleepily  survey  from 
the  car-windows  a  succession  of  indefinite  and  dizzying 
views  streaked  by  telegraph  wires. 

When  his  novitiate  was  ended  he  became  second  mate 
on  a  sailing  vessel  bound  for  Argentina  for  a  cargo 
of  wheat.  The  slow  day's  run  with  little  wind  and 
the  long  equatorial  calms  permitted  him  to  penetrate  a 
little  into  the  mysteries  of  the  oceanic  immensity,  severe 
and  dark,  that  for  ancient  peoples  had  been  "the  night 
of  the  abyss/'  "the  sea  of  utter  darkness,"  "the  blue 
dragon  that  daily  swallows  the  sun." 


PATER  OCEANUS  61 

He  no  longer  regarded  Father  Ocean  as  the  capricious 
and  tyrannical  god  of  the  poets.  Everything  in  his  depths 
was  working  with  a  vital  regularity,  subject  to  the  gen- 
eral laws  of  existence.  Even  the  tempests  roared  within 
prescribed  and  charted  quadrangles. 

The  fresh  trade-winds  pushed  the  bark  toward  the 
Southeast,  maintaining  a  heavenly  serenity  in  sky  and 
sea.  Before  the  prow  hissed  the  silken  wings  of  flying 
fish,  spreading  out  in  swarms,  like  little  squadrons  of 
diminutive  aeroplanes. 

Over  the  masts  and  yards  covered  with  canvas,  the 
albatross,  eagles  of  the  Atlantic  desert,  traced  their 
long,  sweeping  circles,  flashing  across  the  purest  blue 
their  great,  sail-like  wings.  From  time  to  time  the  boat 
would  meet  floating  prairies,  great  fields  of  seaweed 
dislodged  from  the  Sargasso  Sea.  Enormous  tortoises 
drowsed  in  the  midst  of  these  clumps  of  gulf-weed, 
serving  as  islands  of  repose  to  the  seagulls  perched  on 
their  shells.  Some  of  the  seaweeds  were  green,  nourished 
by  the  luminous  water  of  the  surface;  others  had  the 
reddish  color  of  the  deep  where  enters  only  the  deadly 
chill  of  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Like  fruits  of  the 
oceanic  prairies,  there  floated  past  close  bunches  of  dark 
grapes,  leathery  capsules  filled  with  brackish  water. 

As  they  approached  the  equator,  the  breeze  kept  falling 
and  falling,  and  the  atmosphere  became  suffocating  in  the 
extreme.  It  was  the  zone  of  calms,  the  ocean  of  dark, 
oily  waters,  in  which  boats  remained  for  entire  weeks 
with  sails  limp,  without  the  slightest  breath  rippling  the 
atmosphere. 

Clouds  the  color  of  pit  coal  reflected  the  ship's  slow 
progress  over  the  sea ;  showers  of  rain  like  whipcord  oc- 
casionally lashed  the  deck,  followed  by  a  flaming  sun  that 
was  soon  blotted  out  by  a  new  downpour.  These  clouds, 
pregnant  with  cataracts,  this  night  descending  upon  the 


62  MARE  NOSTRUM 

full  daylight  of  the  Atlantic,  had  been  the  terror  of  the 
ancients,  and  yet,  thanks  to  just  such  phenomena,  the 
sailors  could  pass  from  one  hemisphere  to  another  with- 
out the  light  wounding  them  to  death,  or  the  sea  scorching 
them  like  a  burning  glass.  The  heat  of  the  equator,  rais- 
ing up  the  water  in  steam,  had  formed  a  band  of  shade 
around  the  earth.  From  other  worlds  it  must  appear  like 
a  girdle  of  clouds  almost  similar  to  the  sidereal  rings. 

In  this  gloomy,  hot  sea  was  the  heart  of  the  ocean, 
the  center  of  the  circulatory  life  of  the  planet.  The  sky 
was  a  regulator  that,  absorbing  and  returning,  restored 
the  evaporation  to  equilibrium.  From  this  place  were 
sent  forth  the  rains  and  dews  to  all  the  rest  of  the 
earth,  modifying  its  temperatures  favorably  for  the  de- 
velopment of  animal  and  vegetable  life.  There  were  ex- 
changed the  exhalations  of  the  two  worlds ;  and,  con- 
verted into  clouds,  the  water  of  the  southern  hemisphere 
• — the  hemisphere  of  the  great  seas  with  no  other  points 
of  relief  than  the  triangular  extremities  of  Africa  and 
America,  and  the  humps  of  the  oceanic  archipelagoes — - 
was  always  reinforcing  the  rills  and  rivers  of  the  northern 
hemisphere  with  its  inhabited  lands. 

From  this  equatorial  zone,  the  heart  of  the  globe,  come 
forth  two  rivers  of  tepid  water  that  heat  the  coasts  of 
the  north.  They  are  the  two  currents  that  issue  from 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the  Java  Sea.  Their  enormous 
liquid  masses,  fleeing  ceaselessly  from  the  equator,  gov- 
ern a  vast  assemblage  of  water  from  the  poles  that  comes 
to  occupy  their  space,  and  these  chilled  and  fresher  cur- 
rents are  constantly  precipitating  themselves  on  the  elec- 
tric hearth  of  the  equator  that  warms  and  salts  them 
anew,  renewing  with  its  systole  and  diastole  the  life 
of  the  world.  The  ocean  struggles  vainly  to  condense 
these  two  warm  currents  without  ever  succeeding  in 
mingling  itself  with  them.  They  are  torrents  of  a  deep 


PATER  OCEANUS  63 

blue,  almost  black,  that  flow  across  the  cold  and  green 
waters. 

The  Atlantic  current,  upon  reaching  Newfoundland, 
divides  its  arms,  sending  one  of  them  to  the  North  Pole. 
With  the  other,  weak  and  exhausted  by  its  long  jour- 
ney, it  modifies  the  temperature  of  the  British  Isles, 
tempering  refreshingly  the  coasts  of  Norway.  The  In- 
dian current  that  the  Japanese  call,  because  of  its  color, 
"the  black  river,"  circulates  between  the  islands,  main- 
taining for  a  longer  time  than  the  other  its  prodigious 
powers  of  creation  and  agitation  which  enable  it  to  trail 
over  the  planet  an  enormous  tail  of  life. 

Its  center  is  the  apogee  of  terrestrial  energy  in  the 
vegetable  and  animal  creations,  in  monsters  and  in  fish. 
One  of  its  arms,  escaping  toward  the  south,  goes  on  form- 
ing the  mysterious  world  of  the  coral  sea.  In  a  space  as 
large  as  four  continents,  the  polyps,  strengthened  by  the 
lukewarm  water,  are  building  up  thousands  of  atolls,  ring- 
shaped  islands,  reefs  and  submarine  pillars  that,  when 
united  together  by  the  work  of  a  thousand  years,  are 
going  to  create  a  new  land,  an  exchange  continent  in  case 
the  human  species  should  lose  its  present  base  in  some 
cataclysm  of  Nature. 

The  pulse  of  the  blue  god  is  the  tides.  The  earth 
turns  towards  the  moon  and  the  stars  with  a  sympathetic 
rotation  like  that  of  the  flowers  that  turn  towards  the 
sun.  Its  most  movable  part — the  fluid  mass  of  the  atmos- 
phere— dilates  twice  daily,  swelling  its  cavities ;  and  this 
atmospheric  suction,  the  work  of  universal  attraction,  is 
reflected  in  the  tidal  waters.  Closed  seas,  like  the  Medi- 
terranean, scarcely  feel  its  effects,  the  tides  stopping  at 
their  door.  But  on  the  oceanic  coast  the  marine  pulsa- 
tion vexes  the  army  of  the  waves,  hurrying  them  daily 
to  their  assault  of  the  steep  cliffs,  making  them  roar 
with  fury  among  the  islands,  promontories  and  straits, 


64  MARE  NOSTRUM 

and  impelling  them  to  swallow  up  extensive  lands  which 
they  return  hours  afterward. 

This  salty  sea,  like  our  body,  that  has  a  heart,  a  pulse 
and  a  circulation  of  two  different  bloods  incessantly  re- 
newed and  transformed,  becomes  as  furious  as  an  or- 
ganic creature  when  the  horizontal  currents  of  its  interior 
come  to  unite  themselves  with  the  vertical  currents  de- 
scending from  the  atmosphere.  The  violent  passage  of 
the  winds,  the  crises  of  evaporation,  and  the  obscure  elec- 
trical forces  produce  the  tempests. 

These  are  no  more  than  cutaneous  shudderings.  The 
storms,  so  deadly  for  mankind,  merely  contract  the  ma- 
rine epidermis  while  the  profound  mass  of  its  waters 
remains  in  murky  calm,  fulfilling  its  great  function  of 
nourishing  and  renewing  life.  Father  Ocean  completely 
ignores  the  existence  of  the  human  insects  that  dare  to 
slip  across  his  surface  in  microscopic  cockle-shells.  He 
does  not  inform  himself  as  to  the  incidents  that  may  be 
taking  place  upon  the  roof  of  his  dwelling.  His  life  con- 
tinues on, — balanced,  calm,  infinite,  engendering  millions 
upon  millions  of  beings  in  the  thousandth  part  of  a  sec- 
ond. 

The  majesty  of  the  Atlantic  on  tropical  nights  made 
Ulysses  forget  the  wrathful  storms  of  its  black  days.  In 
the  moonlight  it  was  an  immense  plane  of  vivid  silver 
streaked  with  serpentine  shadows.  Its  soft  doughlike 
undulations,  replete  with  microscopic  life,  illuminated  the 
nights.  The  infusoria,  a-tremble  with  love,  glowed  with 
a  bluish  phosphorescence.  The  sea  was  like  luminous 
milk.  The  foam  breaking  against  the  prow  sparkled  like 
broken  fragments  of  electric  globes. 

When  it  was  absolutely  tranquil  and  the  ship  remained 
immovable  with  drooping  sail,  the  stars  passing  slowly 
from  one  side  of  the  mast  to  the  other,  the  delicate  me- 
dusae, that  the  slightest  wave  was  able  to  crush,  would 


PATER  OCEANUS  65 

come  to  the  surface  floating  on  the  waters,  around  the 
island  of  wood.  There  were  thousands  of  these  um- 
brellas filing  slowly  by,  green,  blue,  rose,  with  a  vague 
coloring  similar  to  oil-lights, — a  Japanese  procession  seen 
from  above,  that  on  one  side  was  lost  in  the  mystery 
of  the  black  waters  and  incessantly  reappeared  on  the 
other  side. 

The  young  pilot  loved  navigation  in  a  sailing  ship, — the 
struggle  with  the  wind,  the  solitude  of  its  calms.  He 
was  far  nearer  the  ocean  here  than  on  the  bridge  of  a 
transatlantic  liner.  The  bark  did  not  beat  the  sea  into 
such  rabid  foam.  It  slipped  discreetly  along  as  in  the 
maritime  silence  of  the  first  millennium  of  the  new-born 
earth.  The  oceanic  inhabitants  approached  it  confidently 
upon  seeing  it  rolling  like  a  mute  and  inoffensive  whale. 

In  six  years  Ulysses  changed  his  boat  many  times. 
He  had  learned  English,  the  universal  language  of  the 
blue  dominions,  and  was  refreshing  himself  with  a  study 
of  Maury's  charts — the  sailors'  Bible — the  patient  work 
of  an  obscure  genius  who  first  snatched  from  ocean  and 
atmosphere  the  secret  of  their  laws. 

Desirous  of  exploring  new  seas  and  new  lands,  he  did 
not  stop  in  the  usual  travel  zones  or  ports,  and  the 
British,  Norwegian,  and  North  American  captains  re- 
ceived cordially  this  good-mannered  official  so  little  ex- 
acting as  to  salary.  So  Ulysses  wandered  over  the 
oceans  as  had  the  king  of  Ithaca  over  the  Mediterranean, 
guided  by  a  fatality  which  impelled  him  with  a  rude  push 
far  from  his  country  every  Cime  that  he  proposed  to 
return  to  it.  The  sight  of  a  boat  anchored  near  by  and 
ready  to  set  sail  for  some  distant  port  was  a  temptation 
that  invariably  made  him  forget  to  return  to  Spain. 

He  traveled  in  filthy,  old,  happy-go-lucky  sea-tramps, 
in  which  the  crews  used  to  spread  all  the  sails  to  the 
tempest,  get  drunk  and  fall  asleep/ confident  that  the 


66  MARE  NOSTRUM 

devil,  friend  of  the  brave,  would  awaken  them  on  the 
following  morning.  He  lived  in  white  boats  as  silent 
and  scrupulously  clean  as  a  Dutch  home,  whose  captains 
were  taking  wife  and  childien  with  them,  and  where 
white-aproned  stewardesses  took  care  of  the  galley  and 
the  cleaning  of  the  floating  hearthside,  sharing  the  dan- 
gers of  the  ruddy  and  tranquil  sailors  exempt  from  the 
temptation  that  contact  with  women  provokes.  On  Sun- 
days, under  the  tropic  sun  or  in  the  ash-colored  light  of 
the  northern  heavens,  the  boatswain  would  read  the  Bible. 
The  men  would  listen  thoughtfully  with  uncovered  heads. 
The  women  had  dressed  themselves  in  black  with  lace 
headdress  and  mittened  hands. 

He  went  to  Newfoundland  to  load  codfish.  There  is 
where  the  warm  current  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  meets 
that  from  the  Poles.  In  the  meeting  of  these  two  marine 
rivers  the  infinitesimal  little  beings  that  the  gulf  stream 
drags  thither  die,  suddenly  frozen  to  death,  and  a  rain 
of  minute  corpses  descends  across  the  waters.  The 
cod  gather  there  to  gorge  themselves  on  this  manna  which 
is  so  abundant  that  a  great  part  of  it,  freed  from  their 
greedy  jaws,  drops  to  the  bottom  like  a  snowstorm  of 
lime. 

In  Iceland  (the  Ultima  Thule  of  the  ancients),  they 
showed  Ulysses  bits  of  wood  that  the  equatorial  current 
had  brought  thither  from  the  Antilles.  On  the  coasts  of 
Norway,  as  he  watched  the  herring  during  the  spawning 
season,  he  marveled  at  the  formidable  fertility  of  the  sea. 

From  their  refuge  in  the  shadowy  depths,  these  fish 
mount  to  the  surface  moved  by  the  message  of  the  spring, 
desirous  of  taking  their  part  in  the  joy  of  the  world. 
They  swim  one  against  another,  close,  compact,  forming 
strata  that  subdivide  and  float  out  to  sea.  They  look 
like  an  island  just  coming  to  the  surface,  or  a  continent 
beginning  to  sink.  In  the  narrow  passages  the  shoals 


PATER  OCEANUS  67 

are  so  numerous  that  the  waters  become  solidified,  mak- 
ing almost  impossible  the  advance  of  a  row  boat.  Their 
number  is  beyond  the  possibilities  of  calculation,  like 
the  sands  and  the  stars. 

Men  and  carnivorous  fish  fall  upon  them,  opening  great 
furrows  of  destruction  in  their  midst:  but  the  breaches 
are  closed  instantly  and  the  living  bank  continues  on 
its  way,  growing  denser  every  moment,  as  though  defying 
death.  The  more  their  enemies  destroy  them,  the  more 
numerous  they  become.  The  thick  and  close  columns 
ceaselessly  reproduce  themselves  en  route.  At  sunrise  the 
waves  are  greasy  and  viscous, — replete  with  life  that  is 
fermenting  rapidly.  For  a  space  of  hundreds  of  leagues 
the  salt  ocean  around  them  is  like  milk. 

The  fecundity  of  these  fishy  masses  was  placing  the 
world  in  danger.  Each  individual  could  produce  up  to 
seventy  thousand  eggs.  In  a  few  generations  there  would 
be  enough  to  fill  the  ocean,  to  make  it  solid,  to  make  it 
rot,  extinguishing  other  beings,  depopulating  the  globe. 
.  .  .  But  death  was  charged  with  saving  universal  life. 
The  cetaceans  bore  down  upon  this  living  density  and 
with  their  insatiable  mouths  devoured  the  nourishment 
by  ton  loads.  Infinitely  little  fish  seconded  the  efforts 
of  the  marine  giants,  stuffing  themselves  with  the  eggs  of 
the  herring.  The  most  gluttonous  fish,  the  cod  and  the 
hake,  pursued  these  prairies  of  meat,  pushing  them 
toward  the  coasts  and  finally  dispersing  them. 

The  cod  increases  its  species  most  prodigiously,  sur- 
feiting itself  upon  hake,  until  the  world  is  again  men- 
aced. The  ocean  might  be  converted  into  a  mass  of 
cod,  for  each  one  can  produce  as  many  as  nine  million 
eggs.  .  .  .  Mankind  might  be  overwhelmed  under  the 
onslaught  of  the  more  fertile  fishes,  and  the  cod  might 
maintain  immense  fleets,  creating,  besides,  colonies  and 
cities.  Human  generations  might,  become  exhausted 


68  MARE  NOSTRUM 

without  succeeding  in  conquering  this  monstrous  repro- 
duction. The  great  marine  devourers,  therefore,  are 
those  that  reestablish  equilibrium  and  order.  The  stur- 
geon, insatiable  stomach,  intervenes  in  the  oceanic  ban- 
quet, relishing  in  the  cod  the  concentrated  substance  of 
armies  of  herring.  But  this  oviparous  devourer  of  such 
great  reproductive  power  would,  in  turn,  continue  the 
world  danger  were  it  not  that  another  monster  as  avid 
in  appetite  as  it  is  weak  in  procreation,  intervenes  and 
cuts  down  with  one  blow  the  ever-increasing  fecundity  of 
the  ocean. 

The  superior  glutton  is  the  shark, — that  mouth  with 
fins,  that  natatory  intestine  which  swallows  with  equal  in- 
difference the  dead  and  the  living,  flesh  and  wood, 
cleanses  the  waters  of  life  and  leaves  a  desert  behind  its 
wriggling  tail;  but  this  destroyer  brings  forth  only  one 
shark  that  is  born  armed  and  ferocious  ready  from  the 
very  first  moment  to  continue  the  paternal  exploits,  like  a 
feudal  heir. 

Ferragut's  wandering  life  as  a  pilot  abounded  in  dra- 
matic adventures, — a  few  always  standing  out  clearly 
from  his  many  confused  recollections  of  exotic  lands 
and  interminable  seas. 

In  Glasgow  he  embarked  as  second  mate  on  an  old 
sailing  tramp  that  was  bound  for  Chile,  to  unload  coal  in 
Valparaiso  and  take  on  saltpeter  in  Iquique.  The  cross- 
ing of  the  Atlantic  was  good,  but  upon  leaving  the  Mal- 
vina  Islands  the  boat  had  to  go  out  in  the  teeth  of  a  tor- 
rid, furious  blast  that  closed  the  passage  to  the  Pacific. 
The  Straits  of  Magellan  are  for  ships  that  are  able  to 
avail  themselves  at  will  of  a  propelling  force.  The  sail- 
boat needs  a  wide  sea  and  a  favorable  wind  in  order  to 
double  Cape  Horn,— the  utmost  point  of  the  earth,  the 
place  of  interminable  and  gigantic  tempests. 

While  summer  was  burning  in  the  other  hemisphere, 


PATER  OCEANUS  69 

the  terrible  southern  winter  came  to  meet  the  navigators. 
The  boat  had  to  turn  its  course  to  the  west,  just  as  the 
winds  were  blowing  from  the  west,  barring  its  route. 

Eight  weeks  passed  and  it  was  still  contending  with 
sea  and  tempest.  The  wind  carried  off  a  complete  set 
of  sails.  The  wooden  ship,  somewhat  strained  by  this 
interminable  struggle,  commenced  to  leak,  and  the  crew 
had  to  work  the  hand-pumps  night  and  day.  Nobody 
was  able  to  sleep  for  many  hours  running.  All  were 
sick  from  exhaustion.  The  rough  voice  and  the  oaths  of 
the  captain  could  hardly  maintain  discipline.  Some  of 
the  seamen  lay  down  wishing  to  die,  and  had  to  be  roused 
by  blows. 

Ulysses  knew  for  the  first  time  what  waves  really 
were.  He  saw  mountains  of  water,  literally  mountains, 
pouring  over  the  hull  of  the  boat,  their  very  immensity 
making  them  form  great  slopes  on  both  sides  of  it. 
When  the  crest  of  one  broke  upon  the  vessel  Ferragut 
was  able  to  realize  the  monstrous  weight  of  salt  water. 
Neither  stone  nor  iron  had  the  brutal  blow  of  this  liquid 
force  that,  upon  breaking,  fled  in  torrents  or  dashed  up 
in  spray.  They  had  to  make  openings  in  the  bulwarks 
in  order  to  provide  a  vent  for  the  crushing  mass. 

The  southern  day  was  a  livid  and  foggy  eclipse,  re- 
peating itself  for  weeks  and  weeks  without  the  slightest 
streak  of  clearing,  as  though  the  sun  had  departed  from 
the  earth  forever.  Not  a  glimmer  of  white  existed  in  this 
tempestuous  outline ;  always  gray, — the  sky,  the  foam,  the 
seagulls,  the  snows.  .  .  .  From  time  to  time  the  leaden 
veils  of  the  tempest  were  torn  asunder,  leaving  visible  a 
terrifying  apparition.  Once  it  was  black  mountains  with 
glacial  winding  sheets  from  the  Straits  of  Beagle.  And 
the  boat  tacked,  fleeing  away  from  this  narrow  aquatic 
passageway  full  of  perilous  ledges.  Another  time  the 
peaks  of  Diego  Ramirez,  the  most  extreme  point  of  the 


70  MARE  NOSTRUM 

cape,  loomed  up  before  the  prow,  and  the  bark  again 
tacked,  fleeing  from  this  cemetery  of  ships.  The  wind 
shifting,  then  brought  their  first  icebergs  into  view  and 
at  the  same  time  forced  them  to  turn  back  on  their 
course  in  order  not  to  be  lost  in  the  deserts  of  the  South 
Pole. 

Ferragut  came  to  believe  that  they  would  never  double 
the  Cape,  remaining  forever  in  full  tempest,  like  the  ac- 
cursed ship  of  the  legend  of  the  Flying  Dutchman.  The 
captain,  a  regular  savage  of  the  sea,  taciturn  and  super- 
stitious, shook  his  fist  at  the  promontory,  cursing  it  as 
an  infernal  divinity.  He  was  convinced  that  they  would 
never  succeed  in  doubling  it  until  it  should  be  propitiated 
with  a  human  offering.  This  Englishman  appeared  to 
Ulysses  like  one  of  those  Argonauts  who  used  to  placate 
the  wrath  of  the  marine  deities  with  sacrifices. 

One  night  one  of  the  crew  was  washed  overboard  and 
lost;  the  following  day  a  man  fell  from  the  topmast, 
that  no  one  might  think  salvation  impossible.  And  as 
though  the  Southern  Demon  had  only  been  awaiting  this 
tribute,  the  gale  from  the  west  ceased,  the  bark  no 
longer  had  the  impassable  barrier  of  a  hostile  sea  before 
its  prow,  and  was  able  to  enter  the  Pacific,  anchoring 
twelve  days  later  in  Valparaiso. 

Ulysses  appreciated  now  the  agreeable  memory  that 
this  port  always  leaves  in  the  memory  of  sailors.  It 
was  a  resting-place  after  the  struggle  of  doubling  the 
cape;  it  was  the  joy  of  existence,  after  having  felt  the 
blast  of  death;  it  was  life  again  in  the  cafes  and  in  the 
pleasure  houses,  eating  and  drinking  until  surfeited,  with 
the  stomach  still  suffering  from  the  salty  food  and  the 
skin  still  smarting  from  boils  due  to  the  sea-life. 

His  admiring  gaze  followed  the  graceful  step  of  the 
women  veiled  in  black  who  reminded  him  of  his  uncle, 


PATER  OCEANUS  71 

the  doctor.  In  the  nights  of  the  remolienda?-  his  glance 
was  many  times  distracted  from  the  dark-hued  and  youth- 
ful beauties  dancing  the  Zamacueca2  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  to  the  matrons  swathed  in  black  veils,  who 
were  playing  the  harp  and  piano,  accompanying  the  dance 
with  languishing  songs  which  interested  him  greatly. 
Perhaps  one  of  these  sentimental,  bearded  ladies  might 
have  been  his  aunt. 

While  his  ship  finished  loading  its  cargo  in  Iquique, 
he  came  in  contact  with  the  crowd  of  workers  from 
the  saltpeter  works, — "broken-down"  8  Chileans,  labor- 
ing men  from  all  countries,  who  did  not  know  how  to 
spend  their  day's  wages  in  the  monotony  of  these  new 
settlements.  Their  intoxication  diverted  itself  with  most 
mistaken  magnificence.  Some  would  let  the  wine  run  from 
an  entire  cask  just  to  fill  a  single  glass.  Others  used  the 
bottles  of  champagne  lined  up  on  the  shelves  of  the  cafes 
as  a  target  for  their  revolvers,  paying  cash  for  all  that 
they  broke. 

From  this  trip  Ferragut  gained  a  feeling  of  pride  and 
confidence  that  made  him  scornful  of  every  danger. 
Afterwards  he  encountered  the  tornadoes  of  the  Asiatic 
seas,  those  horrible  circular  tempests  that  in  the  northern 
hemisphere  revolve  from  right  to  left,  and  in  the  south 
from  left  to  right — rapid  incidents  of  a  few  hours  or 
days  at  the  most.  He  had  doubled  Cape  Horn  in  mid- 
winter after  a  struggle  against  the  elements  that  had 
lasted  two  months.  He  had  been  able  to  run  all  risks; 
the  ocean  had  exhausted  for  him  all  its  surprises.  .  .  . 
And  yet,  nevertheless,  the  worst  of  his  adventures  oc- 
curred in  a  calm  sea. 

He  had  been  at  sea  seven  years  and  was  thinking  of 

1  Remolienda, — a  popular  gathering  or  festival  in  Chile. 
"  Zamacueca,  the  national  dance  of  Chile. 
8 "Rotos  chilenos''  originally  a  term  of  contempt  is  now  a  com- 
plimentary by-name. 


72  MARE  NOSTRUM 

returning  once  more  to  Spain  when,  in  Hamburg,  he 
accepted  the  post  of  first  mate  of  a  swift-sailing  ship  that 
was  setting  out  for  Cameroon  and  German  East  Africa. 
A  Norwegian  sailor  tried  to  dissuade  him  from  this 
trip.  It  was  an  old  ship,  and  they  had  insured  it  for 
four  times  its  value.  The  captain  was  in  league  with  the 
proprietor,  who  had  been  bankrupt  many  times.  .  .  .  And 
just  because  this  voyage  was  so  irrational,  Ulysses  has- 
tened to  embark.  For  him,  prudence  was  merely  a  vul- 
garity, and  obstacles  and  dangers  but  tempted  more  ir- 
resistibly his  reckless  daring. 

One  evening  in  the  latitude  of  Portugal,  when  they 
were  far  from  the  regular  route  of  navigation,  a  column 
of  smoke  and  flames  suddenly  swept  the  deck,  breaking 
through  the  hatchways  and  devouring  the  sails.  While 
Ferragut  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  negroes  was  trying 
to  get  control  of  the  fire,  the  captain  and  the  German 
crew  were  escaping  from  the  ship  Jn  two  prepared  life- 
boats. Ferragut  felt  sure  that  the  fugitives  were  laughing 
at  seeing  him  run  about  the  deck  that  was  beginning  to 
warp  and  send  up  fire  through  all  its  cracks. 

Without  ever  knowing  exactly  how,  he  found  himself 
in  a  boat  with  some  negroes  and  different  objects  piled 
together  with  the  precipitation  of  flight, — a  half-empty 
barrel  of  biscuits  and  another  that  contained  only  water. 

They  rowed  all  one  night,  having  behind  them  as  their 
unlucky  star  the  burning  boat  that  was  sending  its  blood- 
red  gleams  across  the  water.  At  daybreak  they  noted 
on  the  sun's  disk  some  light,  black,  wavy  lines.  It  was 
land.  .  .  .  but  so  far  away ! 

For  two  days  they  wandered  over  the  moving  crests 
and  gloomy  valleys  of  the  blue  desert.  Several  times 
Ferragut  collapsed  in  mortal  lethargy,  with  his  feet  in 
the  water  filling  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  The  birds  of 
the  sea  were  tracing  spirals  around  this  floating  hearse, 


PATER  OCEANUS  73 

following  it  with  vigorous  strokes  of  the  wing,  and 
uttering  croakings  of  death.  The  waves  raised  them- 
selves slowly  and  sluggishly  over  the  boat' s  edge  as 
though  wishing  to  contemplate  with  their  sea-green 
eyes  this  medley  of  white  and  dark  bodies.  The  ship- 
wrecked men  rowed  with  nervous  desperation ;  then  they 
lay  down  inert,  recognizing  the  uselessness  of  their  ef- 
forts, lost  in  the  great  immensity. 

The  mate,  drowsing  on  the  hard  stern,  finally  smiled 
with  closed  eyes.  It  was  all  a  bad  dream.  He  was  sure 
of  awaking  in  his  bed  surrounded  with  the  familiar  com- 
forts of  his  stateroom.  And  when  he  opened  his  eyes, 
the  harsh  reality  made  him  break  forth  into  desperate 
orders,  which  the  Africans  obeyed  as  mechanically  as 
though  they  were  still  sleeping. 

"I  do  not  want  to  die!  ...  I  ought  not  to  die!"  as- 
serted his  inner  monitor  in  a  brazen  tone. 

They  shouted  and  made  unavailing  signals  to  distant 
boats  that  disappeared  from  the  great  watery  expanse 
without  ever  seeing  them.  Two  negroes  died  of  the  cold. 
Their  corpses  floated  many  hours  near  the  boat  as  if  un- 
able to  separate  themselves  from  it.  Then  they  were 
drawn  under  by  an  invisible  tugging,  and  some  triangular 
fins  passed  over  the  water's  surface,  cutting  it  like  knives 
at  the  same  time  that  its  depths  were  darkened  by  swift, 
ebony  shadows. 

When  at  last  they  approached  land,  Ferragut  realized 
that  death  was  nearer  here  than  on  the  high  sea.  The 
coast  rose  up  before  them  like  an  immense  wall.  Seen 
from  the  boat  it  appeared  to  cover  half  the  sky.  The 
long  oceanic  undulation  became  a  ravenous  wave  upon 
encountering  the  outer  bulwarks  of  these  barren  islands, 
breaking  in  the  depths  of  their  caves,  and  forming  cas- 
cades of  foam  that  rolled  around  them  from  top  to  bot- 


74  MARE  NOSTRUM 

torn,  raising  up  furious  columns  of  spray  with  the  report 
of  a  cannonade. 

An  irresistible  hand  grasped  the  keel,  making  the  land- 
ing a  vertical  one.  Ferragut  shot  out  like  a  projectile, 
falling  in  the  foaming  whirlpools  and  having  the  impres- 
sion, as  he  sank,  that  men  and  casks  together  were  rolling 
and  raining  into  the  sea. 

He  saw  bubbling  streaks  of  white  and  black  hulks. 
He  felt  himself  impelled  by  contradictory  forces.  Some 
dragged  at  his  head  and  others  at  his  feet  in  different 
directions,  making  him  revolve  like  the  hands  of  a  clock. 
Even  his  thoughts  were  working  double.  "It  is  useless  to 
resist,"  Discouragement  was  murmuring  in  his  brain, 
while  his  other  half  was  affirming  desperately,  "I  do  not 
want  to  die !  ...  I  must  not  die !" 

Thus  he  lived  through  a  few  seconds  that  seemed  to 
him  like  hours.  He  felt  the  brute  force  of  hidden  fric- 
tion, then  a  blow  in  the  abdomen  that  arrested  his  course 
between  the  two  waters,  and  grasping  at  the  irregularities 
of  a  projecting  rock,  he  raised  his  head  and  was  able  to 
breathe.  The  wave  was  retreating,  but  another  again 
overwhelmed  him,  detaching  him  from  the  point  with 
its  foamy  churning,  making  him  leave  in  the  stony  crev- 
ices bits  of  the  skin  of  his  hands,  his  breast,  and  his 
knees. 

The  oceanic  suction  seemed  dragging  him  down  in  spite 
of  his  desperate  strokes.  "It's  no  use !  I'm  going  to  die/' 
half  of  his  mind  was  saying  and  at  the  same  time  his 
other  mental  hemisphere  was  reviewing  with  lightning 
synthesis  his  entire  life.  He  saw  the  bearded  face  of 
the  Triton  in  this  supreme  instant.  He  saw  the  poet 
Labarta  just  as  when  he  was  recounting  to  his  godson 
the  adventures  of  the  old  Ulysses,  and  his  shipwrecked 
struggle  with  the  rocky  peaks  and  waves. 

Again  the  marine  dilatation  tossed  him  against  a  rock, 


PATER  OCEANUS  75 

and  again  he  anchored  himself  to  it  with  an  instinctive 
clutch  of  his  hands.  But  before  this  wave  retired  it 
hurled  him  desperately  upon  another  ledge,  the  refluent 
water  passing  back  below  him.  Thus  he  struggled  a  long 
time,  clinging  to  the  rocks  when  the  sea  overwhelmed 
him,  and  crawling  along  upon  the  jutting  points  whenever 
the  retiring  water  permitted. 

Finding  himself  upon  a  projecting  point  of  the  coast, 
free  at  last  from  the  suction  of  the  waves,  his  energy 
suddenly  disappeared.  The  water  that  dripped  from  his 
body  was  red,  each  time  more  red,  spreading  itself  in 
rivulets  over  the  greenish  irregularities  of  the  rock.  He 
felt  intense  pain  as  though  all  his  organism  had  lost  the 
protection  of  its  covering, — his  raw  flesh  remaining  ex- 
posed to  the  air. 

He  wished  to  get  somewhere,  but  over  his  head  the 
coast  was  rearing  its  stark  bulk, — a  concave  and  inac- 
cessible wall.  It  would  be  impossible  to  get  away  from 
this  spot.  He  had  saved  himself  from  the  sea  only  to 
die  stationed  in  front  of  it.  His  corpse  would  never  float 
to  an  inhabited  shore.  The  only  ones  that  were  going 
to  know  of  his  death  were  the  enormous  crabs  scrambling 
over  the  rocky  points,  seeking  their  nourishment  in  the 
surge ;  the  sea  gulls  were  letting  themselves  drop  vertically 
with  extended  wings  from  the  heights  of  the  steep-sloped 
shore.  Even  the  smallest  crustaceans  had  the  advantage 
of  him. 

Suddenly  he  felt  all  his  weakness,  all  his  misery, 
while  his  blood  continued  crimsoning  the  little  lakes 
among  the  rocks.  Closing  his  eyes  to  die,  he  saw  in  the 
darkness  a  pale  face,  hands  that  were  deftly  weaving 
delicate  laces,  and  before  night  should  descend  forever 
upon  his  eyelids,  he  moaned  a  childish  cry: 

"Mama!  .  .  .  Mama!  .  .  /' 

Three  months  afterward  upon  arriving  at  Barcelona, 


;6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

he  found  his  mother  just  as  he  had  seen  her  during  his 
death-agony  on  the  Portuguese  coast.  .  .  .  Some  fisher- 
men had  picked  him  up  just  as  his  life  was  ebbing  away. 
During  his  stay  in  the  hospital  he  wrote  many  times  in 
a  light  and  confident  tone  to  Dona  Cristina,  pretending 
that  he  was  detained  by  important  business  in  Lisbon. 

Upon  seeing  him  enter  his  home,  the  good  lady  dropped 
her  eternal  lace-work,  turned  pale  and  greeted  him  with 
tremulous  hands  and  troubled  eyes.  She  must  have 
known  the  truth;  and  if  she  did  not  know  it,  her  moth- 
erly instinct  told  her  when  she  saw  Ulysses  convalescent, 
emaciated,  hovering  between  courageous  effort  and  physi- 
cal breakdown,  just  like  the  brave  who  come  out  of  the 
torture  chamber. 

"Oh,  my  son!  .  .  .  How  much  longer!  .  .  ." 

It  was  time  that  he  should  bring  to  an  end  his  madness 
for  adventure,  his  crazy  desire  for  attempting  the  im- 
possible, and  encountering  the  most  absurd  dangers.  If 
he  wished  to  follow  the  sea,  very  well.  But  let  it  be  in 
respectable  vessels  in  the  service  of  a  great  company, 
following  a  career  of  regular  promotion,  and  not  wander- 
ing capriciously  over  all  seas,  associated  with  the  inter- 
national lawlessness  that  the  ports  offer  for  the  reinforce- 
ment of  crews.  Remaining  quietly  at  home  would  be 
best  of  all.  Oh,  what  happiness  if  he  would  but  stay 
with  his  mother!  .  .  . 

And  Ulysses,  to  the  astonishment  of  Dona  Cristina, 
decided  to  do  so.  The  good  senora  was  not  alone.  A 
niece  was  living  with  her  as  though  she  were  her  daugh- 
ter. The  sailor  had  only  to  go  down  in  the  depths  of 
his  memory  to  recall  a  little  tot  of  a  girl  four  years  old, 
creeping  and  frolicking  on  the  shore  while  he,  with  the 
gravity  of  a  man,  had  been  listening  to  the  old  secretary 
of  the  town,  as  he  related  the  past  grandeurs  of  the  Cata- 
lunian  navy. 


PATER  OCEANUS  77 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  Blanes  (the  only  poor  one 
in  the  family)  who  had  commanded  his  relatives'  ships, 
and  had  died  of  yellow  fever  in  a  Central  American  port. 
Ferragut  had  difficulty  in  reconciling  the  little  creature 
crawling  over  the  sand  with  this  same  slender,  olive- 
colored  girl  wearing  her  mass  of  hair  like  a  helmet  of 
ebony,  with  two  little  spirals  escaping  over  the  ears.  Her 
eyes  appeared  to  have  the  changing  tints  of  the  sea,  some- 
times black  and  others  blue,  or  green  and  deep  where  the 
light  of  the  sun  was  reflected  like  a  point  of  gold. 

He  was  attracted  by  her  simplicity  and  by  the  timid 
grace  of  her  words  and  smile.  She  was  an  irresistible 
novelty  for  this  world-rover  who  had  only  known  coppery 
maidens  with  bestial  roars  of  laughter,  yellowish  Asiatics 
with  feline  gestures,  or  Europeans  from  the  great  ports 
who,  at  the  first  words,  beg  for  drink,  and  sing  upon  the 
knees  of  the  one  who  is  treating,  wearing  his  cap  as  a 
testimony  of  love. 

Cinta,  that  was  her  name,  appeared  to  have  known  him 
all  his  life.  He  had  been  the  object  of  her  conversations 
with  Dona  Cristina  when  they  spent  monotonous  hours 
together  weaving  lace,  as  was  the  village  custom.  Pass- 
ing her  room,  Ulysses  noticed  there  some  of  his  own 
portraits  at  the  time  when  he  was  a  simple  apprentice 
aboard  a  transatlantic  liner.  Cinta  had  doubtless  taken 
them  from  her  aunt's  room,  for  she  had  been  admiring 
this  adventurous  cousin  long  before  knowing  him.  One 
evening  the  sailor  told  the  two  women  how  he  had  been 
rescued  on  the  coast  of  Portugal.  The  mother  listened 
with  averted  glance,  and  with  trembling  hands  moving 
the  bobbins  of  her  lace.  Suddenly  there  was  an  outcry. 
It  was  Cinta  who  could  not  listen  any  longer,  and 
Ulysses  felt  flattered  by  her  tears,  her  convulsive  la- 
ments, her  eyes  widened  with  an  expression  of  terror. 

Ferragut's  mother  had  been  greatly  concerned  regard- 


78  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ing  the  future  of  this  poor  niece.  Her  only  salvation  was 
matrimony,  and  the  good  senora  had  focused  her  glances 
upon  a  certain  relative  a  little  over  forty  who  needed  this 
young  girl  to  enliven  his  life  of  mature  bachelorhood.  He 
was  the  wise  one  of  the  family.  Dona  Cristina  used  to 
admire  him  because  he  was  not  able  to  read  without  the 
aid  of  glasses,  and  because  he  interlarded  his  conversa- 
tion with  Latin,  just  like  the  clergy.  He  was  teaching 
Latin  and  rhetoric  in  the  Institute  of  Manresa  and  spoke 
of  being  transferred  some  day  to  Barcelona, — glorious 
end  of  an  illustrious  career.  Every  week  he  escaped  to 
the  capital  in  order  to  make  long  visits  to  the  notary's 
widow. 

"He  doesn't  come  on  my  account,"  said  the  good  sen- 
ora, "who  would  bother  about  an  old  woman  like  me? 
...  I  tell  you  that  he  is  in  love  with  Cinta,  and  it  will 
be  good  luck  for  the  child  to  marry  a  man  so  wise,  so 
serious.  .  .  ." 

As  he  listened  to  his  mother's  matrimonial  schemes, 
Ulysses  began  to  wonder  which  of  a  professor  of  rhet- 
oric's bones  a  sailor  might  break  without  incurring  too 
much  responsibility. 

One  day  Cinta  was  looking  all  over  the  house  for  a 
dark,  worn-out  thimble  that  she  had  been  using  for 
many  years.  Suddenly  she  ceased  her  search,  blushed  and 
dropped  her  eyes.  Her  glance  had  met  an  evasive  look 
on  her  cousin's  face.  He  had  it.  In  Ulysses'  room  might 
be  seen  ribbons,  skeins  of  silk,  an  old  fan — all  deposited 
in  books  and  papers  by  the  same  mysterious  reflex  that 
had  drawn  his  portraits  from  his  mother's  to  his  cousin's 
room. 

The  sailor  now  liked  to  remain  at  home  passing  long 
hours  meditating  with  his  elbows  on  the  table,  but  at  the 
same  time  attentive  to  the  rustling  of  light  steps  that 
could  be  heard  from  time  to  time  in  the  near-by  hallway. 


PATER  OCEANUS  79 

He  knew  about  everything, — spherical  and  rectangular 
trigonometry,  cosmography,  the  laws  of  the  winds  and 
the  tempest,  the  latest  oceanographic  discoveries — but 
who  could  teach  him  the  approved  form  of  addressing  a 
maiden  without  frightening  her?  .  .  .  Where  the  deuce 
could  a  body  learn  the  art  of  proposing  to  a  shy  girl?  .  ,  . 

For  him,  doubts  were  never  very  long  nor  painful  af- 
fairs. Forward  march !  Let  every  one  get  out  of  such 
matters  as  best  he  could.  And  one  evening  when  Cinta 
was  going  from  the  parlor  to  her  aunt's  bedroom  in  order 
to  bring  her  a  devotional  book,  she  collided  with  Ulysses 
in  the  passageway. 

If  she  had  not  known  him,  she  might  have  trembled 
for  her  existence.  She  felt  herself  grasped  by  a  pair 
of  powerful  hands  that  lifted  her  up  from  the  floor.  Then 
an  avid  mouth  stamped  upon  hers  two  aggressive  kisses. 
"Take  that  and  that !"  .  .  .  Ferragut  repented  on  seeing 
his  cousin  trembling  against  the  wall,  as  pale  as  death, 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"I  have  hurt  you.    I  am  a  brute.  ...  a  brute !" 

He  almost  fell  on  his  knees,  imploring  her  pardon ;  he 
clenched  his  fists  as  if  he  were  going  to  strike  himself, 
punishing  himself  for  his  audacity.  But  she  would  not 
let  him  continue.  .  .  .  "No,  No!  .  .  ."  And  while  she 
was  moaning  this  protest,  her  arms  were  forming  a  ring 
around  Ulysses'  neck.  Her  head  drooped  toward  his, 
seeking  the  shelter  of  his  shoulder.  A  little  mouth  united 
itself  modestly  to  that  of  the  sailor,  and  at  the  same  time 
his  beard  was  moistened  with  a  shower  of  tears. 

And  they  said  no  more  about  it. 

When,  weeks  afterward,  Dona  Cristina  heard  her  son's 
petition,  her  first  movement  was  one  of  protest.  A 
mother  listens  with  benevolent  appreciation  to  any  re- 
quest for  the  hand  of  her  daughter,  but  she  is  ambitious 
and  exacting  where  her  son  is  concerned.  She  had 


8o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

dreamed  of  something  so  much  more  brilliant;  but  her 
indecision  was  short.  That  timid  girl  was  perhaps  the 
best  companion  for  Ulysses,  after  all.  Furthermore  the 
child  was  well  suited  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  of  the 
sea,  having  seen  its  life  from  her  infancy.  .  .  .  Good-by 
Professor ! 

They  were  married.  Soon  afterwards  Ferragut,  who 
was  not  able  to  lead  an  inactive  life,  returned  to  the  sea, 
but  as  first  officer  of  a  transatlantic  steamer  that  made 
regular  trips  to  South  America.  To  him  this  seemed  like 
being  employed  in  a  floating  office,  visiting  the  same  ports 
and  invariably  repeating  the  same  duties.  His  mother 
was  extremely  proud  to  see  him  in  uniform.  Cinta  fixed 
her  gaze  on  the  almanac  as  the  wife  of  a  clerk  fixes  it  on 
the  clock.  She  had  the  certainty  that  when  three  months 
should  have  passed  by  she  would  see  him  reappear,  com- 
ing from  the  other  side  of  the  world  laden  down  with 
exotic  gifts,  just  as  a  husband  who  returns  from  the  of- 
fice with  a  bouquet  bought  in  the  street. 

Upon  his  return  from  his  first  two  voyages,  she  went 
to  meet  him  on  the  wharf,  her  eager  glance  searching  for 
his  blue  coat  and  his  cap  with  its  band  of  gold  among  the 
transatlantic  passengers  fluttering  about  the  decks,  re- 
joicing at  their  arrival  in  Europe. 

On  the  following  trip,  Dona  Cristina  obliged  her  to 
remain  at  home,  fearing  that  the  excitement  and  the 
crowds  at  the  harbor  might  affect  her  approaching  ma- 
ternity. After  that  on  each  of  his  return  trips  Ferragut 
saw  a  new  son,  although  always  the  same  one;  first  it 
was  a  bundle  of  batiste  and  lace  carried  by  a  showily-uni- 
formed nurse;  then  by  the  time  he  was  captain  of  the 
transatlantic  liner,  a  little  cherub  in  short  skirts,  chubby- 
cheeked,  with  a  round  head  covered  with  a  silky  down, 
holding  out  its  little  arms  to  him ;  finally  a  boy  who  was 
beginning  to  go  to  school  and  at  sight  of  his  father  would 


PATER  OCEANUS  81 

grasp  his  hard  right  hand,  admiring  him  with  his  great 
eyes,  as  though  he  saw  in  his  person  the  concentrated  per- 
fection of  all  the  forces  of  the  universe. 

Don  Pedro,  the  professor,  continued  visiting  the  house 
of  Dona  Cristina,  although  with  less  assiduity.  He  had 
the  resigned  and  coldly  wrathful  attitude  of  the  man  who 
believes  that  he  has  arrived  too  late  and  is  convinced 
that  his  bad  luck  was  merely  the  result  of  his  careless- 
ness. .  .  .  If  he  had  only  spoken  before !  His  masculine 
self-importance  never  permitted  him  to  doubt  that  the 
young  girl  would  have  accepted  him  jubilantly. 

In  spite  of  this  conviction,  he  was  not  able  to  refrain 
at  times  from  a  certain  ironical  aggressiveness  which  ex- 
pressed itself  by  inventing  classic  nicknames.  The  young 
wife  of  Ulysses,  bending  over  her  lace-making,  was  Pe- 
nelope awaiting  the  return  of  her  wandering  husband. 

Dona  Cristina  accepted  this  nickname  because  she  knew 
vaguely  that  Penelope  was  a  queen  of  good  habits.  But 
the  day  that  the  professor,  by  logical  deduction,  called 
Cinta's  son  Telemachus,  the  grandmother  protested. 

"He  is  named  Esteban  after  his  grandfather.  .  .  . 
Telemachus  is  nothing  but  a  theatrical  name." 

On  one  of  his  voyages  Ulysses  took  advantage  of  a 
four-hour  stop  in  the  port  of  Valencia  to  see  his  god- 
father. From  time  to  time  he  had  been  receiving  letters 
from  the  poet, — each  one  shorter  and  sadder, — written 
in  a  trembling  script  that  announced  his  age  and  increas- 
ing infirmity. 

Upon  entering  the  office  Ferragut  felt  just  like  the  leg- 
endary sleepers  who  believe  themselves  awaking  after 
a  few  hours  of  sleep  when  they  have  really  been  dozing 
for  dozens  of  years.  Everything  there  was  still  just  as  it 
was  in  his  infancy : — the  busts  of  the  great  poets  on  the 
top  of  the  book-cases,  the  wreaths  in  their  glass  cases,  the 
jewels  and  statuettes,  prizes  for  successful  poems — 


82  MARE  NOSTRUM 

were  still  in  their  crystal  cabinets  or  resting  on  the  same 
pedestals ;  the  books  in  their  resplendent  bindings  formed 
their  customary  close  battalions  the  length  of  the  book- 
cases But  the  whiteness  of  the  busts  had  taken  on  the 
color  of  chocolate,  the  bronzes  were  reddened  by  oxida- 
tion, the  gold  had  turned  greenish,  and  the  wreaths  were 
losing  their  leaves.  It  seemed  as  though  ashes  might  have 
rained  down  upon  perpetuity. 

The  occupants  of  this  spell-bound  dwelling  presented 
the  same  aspect  of  neglect  and  deterioration.  Ulysses 
found  the  poet  thin  and  yellow,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
with  one  eye  almost  closed  and  the  other  very  widely 
opened.  Upon  seeing  the  young  officer,  broad-chested, 
vigorous  and  bronzed,  Labarta,  who  was  huddled  in 
a  great  arm  chair,  began  to  cry  with  a  childish  hiccough 
as  though  he  were  weeping  over  the  misery  of  human 
illusions,  over  the  brevity  of  a  deceptive  life  that  necessi- 
tates continual  renovation. 

Ferragut  found  even  greater  difficulty  in  recognizing 
the  little  and  shrunken  senora  who  was  near  the  poet. 
Her  flabby  flesh  was  hanging  from  her  skeleton  like  the 
ragged  fringe  of  past  splendor;  her  head  was  small;  her 
face  had  the  wrinkled  surface  of  a  winter  apple  or 
plum,  or  of  all  the  fruits  that  shrink  and  wither  when 
they  lose  their  juices.  "Dona  Pepa!  .  .  ."  The  two  old 
people  were  thee-ing  and  thou-ing  each  other  with  the 
tranquil  non-morality  of  those  that  realize  that  they  are 
very  near  to  death,  and  forget  the  tremors  and  scruples 
of  a  life  crumbling  behind  them. 

The  sailor  shrewdly  suspected  that  all  this  physical 
misery  was  the  sad  finale  of  an  absurd,  happy-go-lucky 
and  childish  dietary, — sweets  serving  as  the  basis  of  nu- 
trition, great  heavy  rice  dishes  as  a  daily  course,  water- 
melons and  cantaloupes  filling  in  the  space  between  meals, 


PATER  OCEANUS  83 

topped  with  ices  served  in  enormous  glasses  and  sending 
out  a  perfume  of  honeyed  snow. 

The  two  told  him,  sighing,  of  their  infirmities,  which 
they  thought  incomprehensible,  attributing  them  to  the 
ignorance  of  the  doctors.  It  was  really  the  morbid  wast- 
ing away  that  suddenly  attacks  people  of  the  abundant, 
food-yielding  countries.  Their  life  was  one  continual 
stream  of  liquid  sugar.  .  .  .  And  yet  Ferragut  could 
easily  guess  the  disobedience  of  the  two  old  folks  to  the 
discipline  of  diet,  their  childish  deceptions,  their  cun- 
ning in  order  to  enjoy  alone  the  fruits  and  syrups  which 
were  the  enchantment  of  their  existence. 

The  interview  was  a  short  one.  The  captain  had  to 
return  to  the  port  of  Grao  where  his  steamer  was  await- 
ing him,  ready  to  weigh  anchor  for  South  America. 

The  poet  wept  again,  kissing  his  god-son.  He  never 
would  see  again  this  Colossus  who  seemed  to  repel  his 
weak  embraces  with  the  bellows  of  his  respiration. 

"Ulysses,  my  son !  .  .  .  Always  think  of  Valencia.  .  .  . 
Do  for  her  all  that  you  can.  .  .  .  Keep  her  ever  in  mind, 
always  Valencia!" 

He  promised  all  that  the  poet  wished  without  under- 
standing exactly  what  it  was  that  Valencia  might  ex- 
pect from  him,  a  simple  sailor,  wandering  over  all  the 
seas.  Labarta  wished  to  accompany  him  to  the  door  but 
he  sank  down  in  his  seat,  obedient  to  the  affectionate 
despotism  of  his  companion  who  was  always  fearing  the 
greatest  catastrophes  for  him. 

Poor  Dona  Pepa !  .  .  .  Ferragut  felt  inclined  to  laugh 
and  to  weep  at  the  same  time  upon  receiving  a  kiss  from 
her  withered  mouth  whose  down  had  turned  into  pin 
points.  It  was  the  kiss  of  an  old  beauty  who  remem- 
bers the  gallantry  of  a  youthful  lover,  the  kiss  of  a  child- 
less woman  caressing  the  son  she  might  have  had. 

"Poor  unhappy  Carmelo!  ...  He  no  longer  writes, 


84  MARE  NOSTRUM 

he  no  longer  reads.  .  .  .  Ay!  what  will  ever  become  of 
me?  .  .  ." 

She  always  spoke  of  the  poet's  failing  powers  with 
the  commiseration  of  a  strong  and  healthy  person,  and 
she  became  terrified  when  thinking  of  the  years  in  which 
she  might  survive  her  lord.  Taken  up  with  caring  for 
him,  she  never  even  glanced  at  herself. 

A  year  afterward,  on  returning  from  the  Philippines, 
the  captain  found  a  letter  from  his  god-father  awaiting 
him  at  Port  Said.  Dona  Pepa  had  died,  and  Labarta, 
working  off  the  tearful  heaviness  of  his  low  spirits,  bade 
her  farewell  in  a  long  canticle.  Ulysses  ran  his  eyes 
over  the  enclosed  newspaper  clipping  containing  the  last 
verses  of  the  poet.  The  stanzas  were  in  Castilian.  A 
bad  sign!  .  .  .  After  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
his  end  must  be  very  near. 

Ferragut  never  again  had  an  opportunity  to  see  his 
god-father,  who  died  while  he  was  on  one  of  his  trips. 
Upon  disembarking  at  Barcelona,  Dona  Cristina  handed 
him  a  letter  written  by  the  poet  almost  in  his  death-agony. 
"Valencia,  my  son!  Always  Valencia!"  And  after  re- 
peating this  recommendation  many  times,  he  announced 
that  he  had  made  his  god-son  his  heir. 

The  books,  the  statues,  all  the  glorious  souvenirs  of 
the  poet-laureate,  came  to  Barcelona  to  adorn  the  sail- 
or's home.  The  little  Telemachus  amused  himself  pull- 
ing apart  the  old  wreaths  of  the  troubador,  and  tear- 
ing out  the  old  prints  from  his  volumes  with  the  in- 
consequence of  a  lively  child  whose  father  is  very  far 
away  and  who  knows  that  he  is  idolized  by  two  indulgent 
ladies.  Besides  his  trophies,  the  poet  left  Ulysses  an  old 
house  in  Valencia,  some  real  estate  and  a  certain  amount 
in  negotiable  securities, — total,  thirty  thousand  dollars. 

The  other  guardian  of  his  infancy,  the  vigorous  Triton, 
seemed  to  be  unaffected  by  the  passing  of  the  years. 


PATER  OCEANUS  85 

Upon  his  return  to  Barcelona,  Ferragut  frequently  found 
him  installed  in  his  home,  in  mute  hostility  to  Dona  Cris- 
tina,  devoting  to  Cinta  and  her  son  a  part  of  the  affec- 
tion that  he  had  formerly  lavished  upon  Ulysses  alone. 

He  was  very  desirous  that  the  little  Esteban  should 
know  the  home  of  his  great  grandparents. 

"You  will  let  me  have  him?  .  .  .  You  know  well 
enough/'  he  coaxed,  "that  down  in  the  Marina  men  be- 
come as  strong  as  though  made  of  bronze.  Surely  you 
will  let  me  have  him?  .  .  ." 

But  he  quailed  before  the  indignant  gesture  of  the 
suave  Dona  Cristina.  Entrust  her  grandson  to  the 
Triton,  and  let  him  awaken  in  him  the  love  of  maritime 
adventure,  as  he  had  done  with  Ulysses?  .  .  .  Behind 
me,  thou  blue  devil! 

The  doctor  used  to  wander  around  bewildered  by 
the  port  of  Barcelona.  .  .  .  Too  much  noisy  bustle,  too 
much  movement !  Walking  proudly  along  by  the  side  of 
Ulysses,  he  loved  to  recount  to  him  the  adventures  of 
his  life  as  a  sailor  and  cosmopolitan  vagabond.  He  con- 
sidered his  nephew  the  greatest  of  the  Ferraguts,  a  true 
man  of  the  sea  like  his  ancestors  but  with  the  title  of 
captain; — an  adventurous  rover  over  all  oceans,  as  he 
had  been,  but  with  a  place  on  the  bridge,  invested  with 
the  absolute  command  that  responsibility  and  danger  con- 
fer. When  Ulysses  reembarked,  the  Triton  would  take 
himself  off  to  his  own  dominions. 

"It  will  be  next  time,  sure!"  he  would  say  in  order 
to  console  himself  for  having  to  part  with  his  nephew's 
son;  and  after  a  few  months  had  passed  by,  he  would 
reappear,  each  time  larger,  uglier,  more  tanned,  with 
a  silent  smile  which  broke  into  words  before  Ulysses 
just  as  tempestuous  clouds  break  forth  in  thunder  claps. 

Upon  his  return  from  a  trip  to  the  Black  Sea,  Dona 
Cristina  announced  to  her  son :  "Your  uncle  has  died." 


86  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  pious  senora  lamented  as  a  Christian  the  departure 
of  her  brother-in-law,  dedicating  a  part  of  her  prayers 
to  him;  but  she  insisted  with  a  certain  cruelty  in  giving 
an  account  of  his  sad  end,  for  she  had  never  been  able 
to  pardon  his  fatal  intervention  in  the  destiny  of  Ulys- 
ses. He  had  died  as  he  had  lived, — in  the  sea,  a  victim 
of  his  own  rashness,  without  confession,  just  like  any; 
pagan. 

Another  legacy  thus  fell  to  Ferragut.  .  .  .  His  uncle 
had  gone  out  swimming  one  sunny,  winter  morning  and 
had  never  come  back.  The  old  folks  on  the  -shore  had 
their  way  of  explaining  how  the  accident  had  happened, 
— a  fainting  spell  probably,  a  clash  against  the  rocks.  The 
Dotor  was  still  vigorous,  but  the  years  do  not  pass  with- 
out leaving  their  footprints.  Some  believed  that  he 
must  have  had  a  struggle  with  a  shark  or  some  other  of 
the  carnivorous  fish  that  abound  in  the  Mediterranean 
waters.  In  vain  the  fishermen  guided  their  skiffs  through 
all  the  twisting  entrances  and  exits  of  the  waters  around 
the  promontory,  exploring  the  gloomy  caves  and  the 
lower  depths  of  crystalline  transparency.  No  one  was 
ever  able  to  find  the  Triton's  body. 

Ferragut  recalled  the  cortege  of  Aphrodite  which  the 
doctor  had  so  often  described  to  him  on  summer  eve- 
ings,  by  the  light  of  the  far-away  gleam  of  the  light- 
house. Perhaps  he  had  come  upon  that  gay  retinue  of 
nereids,  joining  it  forever! 

This  absurd  supposition  that  Ulysses  mentally  for- 
mulated with  a  sad  and  incredulous  smile,  frequently  re- 
curred in  the  simple  thoughts  of  many  of  the  people  of 
the  Marina. 

They  refused  to  believe  in  his  death.  A  wizard  is 
never  drowned.  He  must  have  found  down  below  some- 
thing very  interesting  and  when  he  got  tired  of  living 


PATER  OCEANUS  87 

in  the  green  depths,  he  would  probably  some  day  come 
swimming  back  home. 

No :  the  Dotor  had  not  died. 

And  for  many  years  afterwards  the  women  who  were 
going  along  the  coast  at  nightfall  would  quicken  their 
steps,  crossing  themselves  upon  distinguishing  on  the 
dark  waters  a  bit  of  wood  or  a  bunch  of  sea  weed.  They 
feared  that  suddenly  would  spring  forth  the  Triton, 
bearded,  dripping,  spouting,  returning  from  his  excur- 
sion into  the  mysterious  depths  of  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  IVi 

FREYA 

THE  name  of  Ulysses  Ferragut  began  to  De  famous 
among  the  captains  of  the  Spanish  ports,  although  the 
nautical  adventures  of  his  early  days  contributed  very 
little  to  this  popularity.  The  most  of  them  had  encoun- 
tered greater  dangers,  but  they  appreciated  him  because 
of  the  instinctive  respect  that  energetic  and  simple  men 
have  for  an  intelligence  which  they  consider  superior 
to  their  own.  Reading  nothing  except  what  pertained  to 
their  career,  they  used  to  speak  with  consternation  of 
the  numerous  books  that  filled  Ferragut's  stateroom, 
many  of  them  upon  matters  which  appeared  to  them  most 
mysterious.  Some  even  made  inexact  statements  in  order 
to  enlarge  the  prestige  of  their  comrade. 

"He  knows  much.  ...  He  is  a  lawyer  as  well  as  a 
sailor." 

Consideration  of  his  fortune  also  contributed  to  the 
general  appreciation.  He  was  an  important  share-holder 
of  the  company  by  which  he  was  employed.  His  com- 
panions loved  to  calculate  with  proud  exaggeration  the 
riches  of  his  mother,  piling  it  up  into  millions 

He  met  friends  on  every  ship  carrying  the  Spanish 
flag,  whatever  might  be  its  home  port  or  the  nationality 
of  its  crews. 

They  all  liked  him: — the  Basque  captains,  economical 
in  words,  rude  and  sparing  in  affectionate  discourse ;  the 
Asturian  and  Galician  captains,  self-confident  and  spend- 
thrift in  strange  contrast  to  their  sobriety  and  avaricious 

88 


FREYA  89 

character  when  ashore ;  the  Andalusian  captains,  reflect- 
ing in  their  witty  talk  white  Cadiz  and  its  luminous  wines ; 
the  Valencian  captains  who  talk  of  politics  on  the  bridge, 
imagining  that  they  are  going  to  become  the  navy  of  a 
future  republic;  and  the  captains  from  Catalunia  and 
Mallorca  as  thoroughly  acquainted  with  business  affairs 
as  are  their  ship-owners.  Whenever  necessity  obliged 
them  to  defend  their  rights,  they  immediately  thought  of 
Ulysses.  Nobody  could  write  as  he  could. 

The  old  mates  who  had  worked  their  way  up  from 
the  lower  ranks,  men  of  the  sea  who  had  begun  their 
career  on  coasting  vessels  and  could  only  with  great 
difficulty  adjust  their  practical  knowledge  to  the  hand- 
ling of  books,  used  to  speak  of  Ferragut  with  pride. 

"They  say  that  men  of  the  sea  are  an  uncultivated 
people.  .  .  .  Here  they  have  Don  Luis  who  is  one  of  us. 
They  may  ask  him  whatever  they  wish.  ...  A  real 
sage!" 

The  name  of  Ulysses  always  made  them  stammer. 
They  believed  it  a  nickname,  and  not  wishing  to  show 
any  lack  of  respect,  they  had  finally  transformed  it  into 
"Don  Luis."  For  some  of  them,  Ferragut's  only  defect 
was  his  good  luck.  So  far  not  a  single  boat  of  which 
he  had  had  command  had  been  lost.  And  every  sailor 
constantly  on  the  sea  ought  to  have  at  least  one  of  these 
misfortunes  in  his  history  in  order  to  be  a  real  captain. 
Only  landlubbers  never  lose  their  boats. 

When  his  mother  died,  Ulysses  was  very  undecided 
about  the  future,  not  knowing  whether  to  continue  his 
sea  life,  or  undertake  something  entirely  different.  His 
relatives  at  Barcelona,  merchants  quick  to  understand  and 
appraise  a  fortune,  added  up  what  the  notary  and  his 
wife  had  left  him  and  put  with  that  what  Labarta  and 
the  doctor  had  contributed,  until  it  amounted  to  a  mil- 
lion pesetas.  .  .  .  And  was  a  man  with  as  much  money 


90  MARE  NOSTRUM 

as  that  to  go  on  living  like  a  poor  captain  dependent  upon 
wages  to  maintain  his  family !  .  .  . 

His  cousin,  Joaquin  Blanes,  proprietor  of  a  factory  for 
knit  goods,  urged  him  repeatedly  to  follow  his  example. 
He  ought  to  remain  on  shore  and  invest  his  capital  in 
Catalan  industry.  Ulysses  belonged  to  this  country  both 
on  his  mother's  side  and  because  he  was  born  in  the 
neighboring  land  of  Valencia.  There  was  great  need  of 
men  of  fortune  and  energy  to  take  part  in  the  govern- 
ment. Blanes  was  entering  local  politics  with  the  enthusi- 
asm of\,a  middle-class  man  for  novel  adventure. 

Cinta  never  said  a  word  to  influence  her  husband.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  sailor  and  had  accepted  the  life 
of  a  sailor's  wife.  Furthermore,  she  looked  upon  mat- 
rimony in  the  light  of  the  old  familiar  traditions: — 
the  woman  absolute  mistress  of  the  interior  of  the 
home,  but  trusting  outside  affairs  to  the  will  of  the 
lord,  the  warrior,  the  head  of  the  hearth,  without  per- 
mitting herself  opinions  or  objections  to  their  acts. 

It  was  Ulysses,  therefore,  who  decided  to  abandon 
the  seafaring  life.  Worked  upon  by  the  suggestions  of 
his  cousins,  it  needed  only  a  little  dispute  with  one  of  the 
directors  of  the  shipping  firm  to  make  him  hand  in  his 
resignation,  and  refuse  to  reconsider  it,  although  urged 
by  the  protests  and  entreaties  of  the  other  stockholders. 

In  the  first  months  of  his  existence  ashore,  he  was 
amazed  at  the  desperate  immovability  of  everything-. 
The  world  was  made  up  of  revolting  rigidity  and  solidity. 
He  felt  almost  nauseated  at  seeing  all  his  possessions 
remain  just  where  he  left  them,  without  the  slightest  fluc- 
tuation, or  the  least  bit  of  casual  caprice. 

In  the  mornings  upon  opening  his  eyes,  he  at  first  ex- 
perienced the  sweet  sensation  of  irresponsible  liberty. 
Nothing  affected  the  fate  of  that  house.  The  lives  of 
those  that  were  sleeping  on  the  other  floors  above  and  be- 


FREYA  91 

low  him  had  not  been  entrusted  to  his  vigilance.  .  .  .  But 
in  a  few  days  he  began  to  feel  that  there  was  something 
lacking,  something  which  had  been  one  of  the  greatest 
satisfactions  of  his  existence, — the  sensation  of  power, 
the  enjoyment  of  command. 

Two  maids  were  now  always  hastening  to  him  with  a 
frightened  air  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  or  the  ringing  of 
his  bell.  That  was  all  that  was  left  to  him  who  had  com- 
manded dozens  of  men  of  such  ugliness  of  temper  that 
they  struck  terror  to  all  beholders  when  they  went  ashore 
in  the  ports.  Nobody  consulted  him  now,  while  on  the  sea 
everybody  was  seeking  his  counsel  and  many  times  had 
to  interrupt  his  sleep.  The  house  could  go  on  without 
his  making  the  rounds  daily  from  the  cellars  to  the  roof, 
overseeing  even  the  slightest  spigot.  The  women  who 
cleaned  it  in  the  mornings  with  their  brooms  were  always 
obliging  him  to  flee  from  his  office.  He  was  not  permitted 
to  make  any  comment  nor  could  he  extend  a  gold-striped 
arm  as  when  he  used  to  scold  the  barefooted,  bare- 
breasted  deck-swabbers,  insisting  that  the  deck  should 
be  as  clean  as  the  saloon.  He  felt  himself  belittled,  laid 
to  one  side.  He  thought  of  Hercules  dressed  as  a  woman 
and  spinning  wool.  His  love  of  family  life  had  made 
him  renounce  that  of  a  powerful  man. 

Only  the  considerate  treatment  of  his  wife,  who  sur- 
rounded him  with  assiduous  care  as  though  wishing  to 
compensate  for  their  long  separations,  made  the  situation 
bearable.  Furthermore,  his  conscience  was  enjoying  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  being  a  land- father,  taking  much 
interest  in  the  life  of  his  son  who  was  beginning  to 
prepare  to  enter  the  institute,  looking  over  his  books,  and 
aiding  him  in  understanding  the  notes. 

But  even  these  pleasures  were  not  of  long  duration. 
The  family  gatherings  in  his  home  or  at  his  relatives' 
bored  him  unspeakably;  so  did  the 'conversations  with 


92  MARE  NOSTRUM 

his  cousins  and  nephews  about  profits  and  business  deals, 
or  about  the  defects  of  centralized  tyranny.  According 
to  them,  all  the  calamities  of  heaven  and  earth  were 
coming  from  Madrid.  The  governor  of  the  province  was 
the  "Consul  of  Spain." 

These  merchants  interrupted  their  criticisms  only  to 
listen  in  religious  silence  to  Wagner's  music  banged  out 
on  the  piano  by  the  girls  of  the  family.  A  friend  with 
a  tenor  voice  used  to  sing  Lohengrin  in  Catalan.  Enthu- 
siasm made  the  most  excitable  roar,  "the  hymn !  .  .  .  the 
hymn!"  It  was  not  possible  to  misunderstand.  For 
them  there  was  only  one  hymn  in  existence,  and  in  a 
trilling  undertone  they  would  accompany  the  liturgic 
music  of  Los  Segadores  (The  Reapers).1 

Ulysses  used  to  recall  with  homesickness  his  life  as 
commander  of  a  transatlantic  liner, — a  wide,  universal  life 
of  incessant  and  varied  horizons,  and  cosmopolitan 
crowds.  He  could  see  himself  detained  on  deck  by 
groups  of  elegant  maidens  who  would  beg  him  for  new 
dances  in  the  coming  week.  His  footsteps  were  sur- 
rounded with  white  fluttering  skirts,  veils  that  waved 
like  colored  clouds,  laughter  and  trills,  Spanish  chatter 
that  appeared  set  to  music : — all  the  frolicsome  jargon  of 
a  cage  of  tropical  birds. 

Ex-presidents  of  the  South  American  republics, — gen- 
erals or  doctors  who  were  going  to  Europe  to  rest, — used 
to  relate  to  him  on  the  bridge,  with  Napoleonic  gravity, 
the  principal  events  in  their  history.  The  business  men 
starting  out  for  America  confided  to  him  their  stupendous 
plans : — rivers  turned  from  their  courses,  railroads  built 
across  the  virgin  forests,  monstrous  electric  forces  ex- 
tracted from  huge  waterfalls  varying  in  breadth,  cities 
vomited  from  the  desert  in  a  few  weeks,  all  the  marvels  of 

*The  revolutionary  song  of  Catalunia,  originated  by  a  band 
of  reapers  in  the  seventeenth  century. 


FREYA 


93 


an  adolescent  world  that  desires  to  realize  whatever  its 
youthful  imagination  may  conceive.  He  was  the  demi- 
urge of  this  little  floating  world:  he  disposed  of  joy 
and  love  as  the  spirit  moved  him. 

In  the  scorching  evenings  around  the  equator,  it  was 
enough  for  him  to  give  an  order  to  rouse  things  and 
beings  from  their  brutish  drowsiness.  "Let  the  music 
begin,  and  refreshments  be  served."  And  in  a  few  mo- 
ments dancers  would  be  revolving  the  whole  length  of 
the  deck,  and  smiling  lips  and  eyes  would  become  bril- 
liantly alight  with  illusion  and  desire.  Behind  him,  his 
praises  were  always  being  sounded.  The  matrons  found 
him  very  distinguished.  "It  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  he 
is  an  exceptional  person."  Stewards  and  crew  circulated 
exaggerated  accounts  of  his  riches  and  his  studies.  Some 
young  girls  sailing  for  Europe  with  imaginations  seething 
with  romance  were  very  much  aghast  to  learn  that  the 
hero  was  married  and  had  a  son.  The  solitary  ladies 
stretched  out  on  a  chaise-longue,  book  in  hand,  upon  see- 
ing him  would  arrange  the  corolla  of  their  petticoats, 
hiding  their  legs  with  so  much  precipitation  that  it  always 
left  them  more  uncovered;  then  fixing  upon  him  a  lan- 
guishing glance,  they  would  begin  a  dialogue  always  in 
the  same  way. 

"How  is  it  that  any  one  so  young  as  you  has  already 
become  a  captain?  .  .  ." 

Ah,  the  misery  of  it !  .  .  .  He  who  had  gallantly  passed 
many  years  cruising  from  one  extreme  of  the  Atlantic  to 
the  other  with  a  rich,  gay,  perfumed  world,  at  times  re- 
sisting feminine  caprice  through  mere  prudence,  yielding 
at  others  with  the  secrecy  of  a  discreet  sailor,  now  found 
himself  with  no  other  admirers  than  the  mediocre  tribe 
of  the  Blanes,  with  no  other  hallucinations  than  those 
which  his  cousin  the  manufacturer  might  suggest,  when 


94  MARE  NOSTRUM 

waxing  enthusiastic  because  the  great  apostles  of  politics 
were  taking  a  certain  interest  in  the  captain. 

Every  morning,  on  awaking,  his  taste  now  received  a 
rude  shock.  The  first  thing  that  he  contemplated  was  a 
room  "without  personality,"  a  dwelling  that  was  not  char- 
acteristic of  him  in  any  way,  arranged  by  the  maids  with 
excessive  cleanliness  and  a  lack  of  logic  that  was  con- 
stantly changing  the  situation  of  his  things. 

He  recalled  with  longing  his  compact  and  well-ordered 
stateroom  where  there  was  not  a  piece  of  furniture  that 
could  escape  his  glance  nor  a  drawer  whose  contents 
he  did  not  know  down  to  the  slightest  detail.  His  body 
was  accustomed  to  slip  without  embarrassment  through 
the  spaces  of  his  cabin  furnishings.  He  had  adapted 
himself  to  all  incoming  and  outgoing  angles  just  as  the 
body  of  the  mollusk  adapts  itself  to  the  winding  curves 
of  its  shells.  The  cabin  seemed  formed  by  the  secretions 
of  his  being.  It  was  a  covering,  a  sheath,  that  went  with 
him  from  one  extreme  of  the  ocean  to  the  other,  heating 
itself  with  the  high  temperature  of  the  tropics,  or  becom- 
ing as  cosy  as  an  Esquimo  hut  on  approaching  the  polar 
seas. 

His  love  for  it  was  somewhat  like  that  which  the  friar 
has  for  his  cell;  but  this  cell  was  a  secular  one,  and 
entering  it  after  a  tempestuous  night  on  the  bridge,  or  a 
trip  ashore  in  most  curious  and  foreign  ports,  he  found 
it  always  the  same,  with  his  papers  and  books  untouched 
on  the  table,  his  clothes  hanging  from  their  hooks,  his 
photographs  fixed  on  the  walls.  The  daily  spectacle  of 
seas  and  lands  was  always  changing — the  temperature,  the 
course  of  the  stars,  and  the  people  that  one  week  were 
bundled  up  in  winter  greatcoats,  and  were  clad  in  white 
the  week  after,  hunting  the  heavens  for  the  new  stars 
of  another  hemisphere.  .  .  .  Yet  his  cozy  little  stateroom 
was  always  the  same,  as  though  it  were  the  corner  of  a 


FREYA 


95 


planet  apart,  unaffected  by  the  variations  of  this  world. 

Upon  awaking  in  it,  he  found  himself  every  morning 
enwrapped  in  a  greenish  and  bland  atmosphere  as  though 
he  might  have  been  sleeping  in  the  bottom  of  an  en- 
chanted lake.  The  sun  traced  over  the  whiteness  of  his 
ceiling  and  sheets  a  restless  network  of  gold  whose 
meshes  constantly  succeeded  each  other.  This  was  the 
reflection  of  the  invisible  water.  When  his  ship  was 
immovable  in  the  ports,  there  always  came  in  through 
his  window  the  whirling  noise  of  the  cranes,  the  cries 
of  the  stevedores  and  the  voices  of  those  who  were  in  the 
neighboring  vessels.  On  the  high  sea  the  cool  and  murmur- 
ing silence  of  immensity  used  to  fill  his  sleeping  room.  A 
wind  of  infinite  purity  that  came  perhaps  from  the  other 
side  of  the  planet — slipping  past  thousands  of  leagues, 
over  the  salty  deserts  without  touching  a  single  bit  of 
corruption — would  come  stealing  into  Ferragut's  throat 
like  an  effervescent  wine.  His  chest  always  expanded  to 
the  impulses  of  this  life-giving  draught  as  his  eyes  roved 
over  the  sparkling,  luminous  blue  of  the  horizon. 

Here  in  his  home,  the  first  thing  that  he  saw  through 
the  window  upon  awaking  was  a  Catalunian  edifice,  rich 
and  monstrous,  like  the  palaces  that  the  hypnotist  evolves 
in  his  dreams, — an  amalgamation  of  Persian  flowers, 
Gothic  columns,  trunks  of  trees,  with  quadrupeds,  rep- 
tiles and  snails  among  the  cement  foliage.  The  paving 
wafted  up  to  him  through  its  drains  the  fetidity  of  sewers 
dry  for  lack  of  water;  the  balconies  shed  the  dust  of 
shaken  rugs;  the  absurd  palace  appropriated,  with  the 
insolence  of  the  new-rich,  all  the  heaven  and  sun  that 
used  to  belong  to  Ferragut. 

One  night  he  surprised  his  relatives  by  informing  them 
that  he  was  about  to  return  to  the  sea.  Cinta  assented 
to  this  resolution  in  painful  silence,  as  though  she  had 
foreseen  it  long  before.  It  was  some'thing  inevitable  and 


96  MARE  NOSTRUM 

fatal  that  she  must  accept.  The  manufacturer,  Blanes, 
stammered  with  astonishment.  Return  to  his  life  of  ad- 
ventures, when  the  great  gentlemen  of  the  district  were 
becoming  interested  in  his  personality!  .  .  .  Perhaps  in 
the  next  elections  they  might  have  made  him  a  member 
of  the  municipal  council! 

Ferragut  laughed  at  his  cousin's  simplicity.  He  want- 
ed to  command  a  vessel  again,  but  one  of  his  own,  with- 
out being  obliged  to  consider  the  restrictions  of  the  ship 
owners.  He  could  permit  himself  this  luxury.  It  would 
be  like  an  enormous  yacht,  ready  to  set  forth  according 
to  his  tastes  and  convenience,  yet  at  the  same  time  bring- 
ing him  in  untold  profits.  Perhaps  his  son  might  in  time 
become  director  of  a  maritime  company,  this  first  ship 
laying  the  foundation  of  an  enormous  fleet  in  the  years 
to  come. 

He  knew  every  port  in  the  world,  every  highway  of 
traffic,  and  he  would  be  able  to  find  the  places  where, 
lacking  transportation  facilities,  they  paid  the  highest 
freight  rates.  Until  now  he  had  been  a  salaried  man, 
brave  and  care-free.  He  was  going  to  begin  an  absolutely 
independent  life  as  a  speculator  of  the  sea. 

Two  months  afterwards  he  wrote  from  England  say- 
ing that  he  had  bought  the  Fingal,  a  mail  packet  of  three 
thousand  tons  that  had  made  trips  twice  a  week  between 
London  and  a  port  of  Scotland. 

Ulysses  appeared  highly  delighted  with  the  cheapness 
of  his  acquisition.  The  Fingal  had  been  the  property 
of  a  Scotch  captain  who,  in  spite  of  his  long  illness,  had 
never  wished  to  give  up  command,  dying  aboard  his  ves- 
sel. His  heirs,  inland  men  tired  by  their  long  wait,  were 
anxious  to  get  rid  of  it  at  any  price. 

When  the  new  proprietor  entered  the  aft  saloon  sur- 
rounded with  staterooms, — the  only  habitable  place  in  the 
ship, — memories  of  the  dead  came  forth  to  meet  him.  On 


FREYA  97 

the  wall-panels  were  painted  the  heroes  of  the  Scotch 
Iliad, — the  bard  Ossian  with  his  harp,  Malvina  with  the 
round  arms  and  waving  golden  tresses,  the  undaunted 
warriors  with  their  winged  helmets  and  protruding  bi- 
ceps, exchanging  gashes  on  their  shields  while  awaking 
the  echoes  of  the  green  lochs. 

A  deep  and  spongy  arm  chair  opened  its  arms  before 
a  stove.  There  the  owner  of  the  ship  had  passed  his  last 
years,  sick  at  heart  and  with  swollen  legs,  directing  from 
his  seat  a  course  that  was  repeated  every  week  across 
the  foggy  winter  waves  tossing  bits  of  ice  snatched  from 
the  icebergs.  Near  the  stove  was  a  piano  and  upon 
its  top  an  orderly  collection  of  musical  scores  yellowed 
by  time, — La  Sonnambuld,  Lucia,  Romances  of  Tosti, 
Neapolitan  songs,  breezy  and  graceful  melodies  that  the 
old  chords  of  the  instrument  sent  forth  with  the  fragile 
and  crystalline  tinkling  of  an  old  music  box.  The  poor 
old  captain  with  sick  heart  and  legs  of  stone  had  always 
turned  to  the  sea  of  light  for  distraction.  It  was  music 
that  made  appear  in  the  foggy  heavens  the  peaks  of 
Sorrento  covered  with  orange  and  lemon  trees,  and  the 
coast  of  Sicily,  perfumed  by  its  flaming  flora. 

Ferragut  manned  his  boat  with  friendly  people.  His 
first  mate  was  a  pilot  who  had  begun  his  career  in  a  fish- 
ing smack.  He  came  from  the  same  village  as  Ulysses' 
ancestors,  and  he  remembered  the  Dotor  with  respect  and 
admiration.  He  had  known  this  new  captain  when  he 
was  a  little  fellow  and  used  to  go  fishing  with  his  uncle. 
In  those  days  Toni  was  already  a  sailor  on  a  coast-trad- 
ing vessel,  and  his  superiority  in  years  had  then  justified 
his  using  the  familiar  thee  and  thou  when  talking  with 
the  lad  Ulysses. 

Finding  himself  now  under  his  orders,  he  wished  to 
change  his  mode  of  address,  but  the  captain  would  not 
permit  it  Perhaps  he  and  Toni  we're  distant  relatives, — 


98  MARE  NOSTRUM 

all  those  living  in  that  village  of  the  Marina  had  become 
related  through  long  centuries  of  isolated  existence  and 
common  danger.  The  entire  crew,  from  the  first  engineer 
to  the  lowest  seaman,  showed  an  equal  familiarity  in  this 
respect.  Some  were  from  the  same  land  as  the  captain, 
others  had  been  sailing  a  long  time  under  his  orders. 

As  shipowner,  Ulysses  now  underwent  numberless  ex- 
periences whose  existence  he  had  never  before  suspected. 
He  went  through  the  anguishing  transformation  of  the 
actor  who  becomes  a  theatrical  manager,  of  the  author 
who  branches  out  into  publishing,  of  the  engineer  with 
a  hobby  for  odd  inventions  who  becomes  the  proprietor 
of  a  factory.  His  romantic  love  for  the  sea  and  its  ad- 
ventures was  now  overshadowed  by  the  price  and  con- 
sumption of  coal,  by  the  maddening  competition  that  low- 
ered freight  rates,  and  by  the  search  for  new  ports  with 
fast  and  remunerative  freight. 

The  Fingal  which  had  been  rebaptized  by  its  new  pro- 
prietor with  the  name  of  Mare  Nostrum,  in  memory  of 
his  uncle,  turned  out  to  be  a  dubious  purchase  in  spite  of 
its  low  price.  As  a  navigator  Ulysses  had  been  most  en- 
thusiastic upon  beholding  its  high  and  sharp  prow  dis- 
posed to  confront  the  worst  seas,  the  slenderness  of  the 
swift  craft,  its  machinery,  excessively  powerful  for  a 
freight  steamer, — all  the  conditions  that  had  made  it  a 
mail  packet  for  so  many  years.  It  consumed  too  much 
fuel  to  be  a  profitable  investment  as  a  transport  of  mer- 
chandise. The  captain  during  his  navigation  could  now 
think  only  of  the  ravenous  appetite  of  the  boilers.  It 
always  seemed  to  him  that  the  Mare  Nostrum  was  speed- 
ing along  with  excess  steam. 

"Half  speed!"  he  would  shout  down  the  tube  to  his 
first  engineer. 

But  in  spite  of  this  and  many  other  precautions,  the 
expense  for  fuel  was  enormously  disproportioned  to  the 


FREYA 


99 


tonnage  of  the  vessel.  The  boat  was  eating  up  all  the 
profits.  Its  speed  was  insignificant  compared  with  that 
of  a  transatlantic  steamer,  though  absurd  compared 
with  that  of  the  merchant  vessels  of  great  hulls  and  little 
machinery  that  were  going  around  soliciting  cargo  at  any 
price,  from  all  points. 

A  slave  of  the  superiority  of  his  vessel  and  in  con- 
tinual struggle  with  it,  Ferragut  had  to  make  great  ef- 
forts in  order  to  continue  sailing  without  actual  heavy 
loss.  All  the  waters  of  the  planet  now  saw  the  Mare 
Nostrum  specializing  in  the  rarest  kind  of  transportation. 
Thanks  to  this  expedient,  the  Spanish  flag  waved  in  ports 
that  had  never  seen  it  before. 

Under  this  banner,  he  made  trips  through  the  solitary 
seas  of  Syria  and  Asia  Minor,  skirting  coasts  where  the 
novelty  of  a  ship  with  a  smoke  stack  made  the  people  of 
the  Arabian  villages  run  together  in  crowds.  He  dis- 
embarked in  Phoenician  and  Greek  ports  choked  up  with 
sand  that  had  left  only  a  few  huts  at  the  foot  of  moun- 
tains of  ruins,  and  where  columns  of  marble  were  still 
sticking  up  like  trunks  of  lopped-off  palm  trees.  He 
anchored  near  to  the  terrible  breakers  of  the  western 
coast  of  Africa  under  a  sun  which  scorched  the  deck,  in 
order  to  take  on  board  india-rubber,  ostrich  feathers,  and 
elephants'  tusks,  brought  out  in  long  pirogues  by  negro 
oarsmen,  from  a  river  filled  with  crocodiles  and  hippo- 
potamuses, and  bordered  by  groups  of  huts  with  straw 
cones  for  roofs. 

When  there  were  no  more  of  these  extraordinary  voy- 
ages, the  Mare  Nostrum  turned  its  course  towards  South 
America,  resigning  itself  to  competition  in  rates  with  the 
English  and  Scandinavians  who  are  the  muleteers  of  the 
ocean.  His  tonnage  and  draught  permitted  him  to  sail  up 
the  great  rivers  of  North  America,  even  reaching  the 
cities  of  the  remote  interior  where  raws  of  factory  chim- 


ioo  MARE  NOSTRUM 

neys  smoked  on  the  border  of  a  fresh- water  lake  con- 
verted into  a  port. 

He  sailed  up  the  ruddy  Parana  to  Rosario  and  Co- 
lastine,  in  order  to  load  Argentine  wheat;  he  anchored 
in  the  amber  waters  of  Uruguay  opposite  Paysandu  and 
Fray  Ventos,  taking  on  board  hides  destined  to  Europe 
and  salt  for  the  Antilles.  From  the  Pacific  he  sailed  up 
the  Guayas  bordered  with  an  equatorial  vegetation,  in 
search  of  cocoa  from  Guayaquil.  His  prow  cut  the  infi- 
nite sheet  of  the  Amazon, — dislodging  gigantic  tree- 
trunks  dragged  down  by  the  inundations  of  the  virgin 
forest — in  order  to  anchor  opposite  Para  or  Manaos, 
faking  on  cargoes  of  tobacco  and  coffee.  He  even  car- 
ried from  Germany  implements  of  war  for  the  revolution- 
ists of  a  little  republic. 

These  trips  that  in  other  times  would  have  awakened 
Ferragut's  enthusiasm  now  resulted  disastrously.  After 
having  paid  all  expenses  and  lived  with  maddening  econ- 
omy, there  was  scarcely  anything  left  for  the  owner. 
Each  time  the  freight  boats  were  more  numerous  and 
the  transportation  rates  cheaper.  Ulysses  with  his  ele- 
gant Mare  Nostrum  could  not  compete  with  the  southern 
captains,  drunken  and  taciturn,  eager  to  accept  freight 
at  any  price  in  order  to  fill  their  miserable  transports 
crawling  across  the  ocean  at  the  speed  of  a  tortoise. 

"I  can  do  no  more,"  he  said  sadly  to  his  mate.  "I  shall 
simply  ruin  my  son.  If  anybody  will  buy  the  Mare 
Nostrum,  I'm  going  to  sell  it." 

On  one  of  his  fruitless  expeditions,  just  when  he  was 
most  discouraged,  some  unexpected  news  changed  the 
situation  for  him.  They  had  just  arrived  at  Teneriffe 
with  maize  and  bales  of  dry  alfalfa  from  Argentina. 

When  Toni  returned  aboard  after  having  cleared  the 
vessel,  he  shouted  in  Valencian,  the  language  of  intimacy, 
"War,  Che!" 


FREYA  roi 

Ulysses,  who  was  pacing  the  bridge,  received  the  news 
with  indifference.  "War?  .  .  .  What  war  is  that?  .  .  ." 
But  upon  learning  that  Germany  and  Austria  had  be- 
gun hostilities  with  France  and  Russia,  and  that  Eng- 
land was  just  intervening  in  behalf  of  Belgium,  the  cap- 
tain began  quickly  to  calculate  the  political  consequences 
of  this  conflagration.  He  could  see  nothing  else. 

Toni,  less  disinterested,  spoke  of  the  future  of  the 
vessel.  .  .  .  Their  misery  was  at  last  at  an  end !  Freight- 
age at  thirteen  shillings  a  ton  was  going  to  be  henceforth 
but  a  disgraceful  memory.  They  would  no  longer  have 
to  plead  for  freight  from  port  to  port  as  though  beg- 
ging alms.  Now  they  were  on  the  point  of  achieving  im- 
portance, and  were  going  to  find  themselves  solicited  by 
consignors  and  disdainful  merchants.  The  Mare  Nostrum 
was  going  to  be  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 

Such  predictions,  though  Ferragut  refused  to  accept 
them,  began  to  be  fulfilled  in  a  very  short  time.  Ships 
on  the  ocean  routes  suddenly  became  very  scarce.  Some 
of  them  were  taking  refuge  in  the  nearest  neutral  ports, 
fearing  the  enemy's  cruisers.  The  greater  part  were  mo- 
bilized by  their  governments  for  the  enormous  trans- 
portation of  material  that  modem  war  exacts.  The  Ger- 
man corsairs,  craftily  taking  advantage  of  the  situation, 
were  increasing  with  their  captures  the  panic  of  the  mer- 
chant marine. 

The  price  of  freight  leaped  from  thirteen  shillings  a 
ton  to  fifty,  then  to  seventy,  and  a  few  days  later  to  a 
hundred.  It  couldn't  climb  any  further,  according  to 
Captain  Ferragut. 

"It  will  climb  higher  yet/'  affirmed  the  first  officer  with 
cruel  joy.  "We  shall  see  tonnage  at  a  hundred  and  fifty, 
at  two  hundred.  .  .  .  We  are  going  to  become  rich !  .  .  ." 

And  Toni  always  used  the  plural  in  speaking  of  the 
future  riches  without  its  ever  occurring  to  him  to  ask  his 


ic2  MARE  NOSTRUM 

captain  a  penny  more  than  the  forty-five  dollars  that  he 
was  receiving  each  month.  Ferragut's  fortune  and  that 
of  the  ship,  he  invariably  looked  upon  as  his  own,  con- 
sidering himself  lucky  if  he  was  not  out  of  tobacco, 
and  could  send  his  entire  wages  home  to  his  wife  and 
children  living  down  there  in  the  Marina. 

His  ambition  was  that  of  all  modest  sailors — to  buy  a 
plot  of  land  and  become  an  agriculturist  in  his  old  age. 
The  Basque  pilots  used  to  dream  of  prairies  and  apple 
orchards,  a  little  cottage  on  a  peak  and  many  cows.  He 
pictured  to  himself  a  vineyard  on  the  coast,  a  little  white 
dwelling  with  an  arbor  under  whose  shade  he  could 
smoke  his  pipe  while  all  his  family,  children  and  grand- 
children, were  spreading  out  the  harvest  of  raisins  on  the 
frame-hurdles. 

A  familiar  admiration  like  that  of  an  ancient  squire  for 
his  paladin,  or  of  an  old  subaltern  for  a  superior  officer, 
bound  him  to  Ferragut.  The  books  that  filled  the  cap- 
tain's stateroom  recalled  his  agonies  upon  being  examined 
in  Cartagena  for  his  license  as  a  pilot.  The  grave  gen- 
tlemen of  the  tribunal  had  made  him  turn  pale  and  stut- 
ter like  a  child  before  the  logarithms  and  formulas  of 
trigonometry.  But  just  let  them  consult  him  on  prac- 
tical matters  and  his  skill  as  master  of  a  bark  habituated 
to  all  the  dangers  of  the  sea,  and  he  would  reply  with  the 
self-possession  of  a  sage! 

In  the  most  difficult  perils, — days  of  storm  and  sin- 
ister shoals  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  treacherous  coasts, 
Ferragut  could  decide  to  rest  only  when  Toni  replaced 
him  on  the  bridge.  With  him,  he  had  no  fear  that, 
through  carelessness,  a  wave  would  sweep  across  the  deck 
and  stop  the  machinery,  or  that  an  invisible  ledge  would 
drive  its  stony  point  into  the  vitals  of  the  vessel.  He  held 
the  helm  to  the  course  indicated.  Silent  and  immovable 
he  stood,  as  though  sleeping  on  his  feet;  but  at  the  ri^ht 


FREYA  103 

moment  he  always  uttered  the  brief  word  of  command. 

He  was  very  skinny,  with  the  dried  up  leanness  of  the 
bronzed  Mediterranean.  The  salt  wind  more  than  his 
years  had  tanned  his  face,  wrinkling  it  with  deep  crev- 
ices. A  capricious  coloring  had  darkened  the  depths  of 
these  cracks  while  the  part  exposed  to  the  sun  appeared 
washed  several  shades  lighter.  His  short  stiff  beard  ex- 
tended over  all  the  furrows  and  crests  of  his  skin.  Fur- 
thermore, he  had  hair  in  his  ears,  hair  in  the  nasal  pas- 
sages, coarse  and  vibrating  growths,  ready  to  tremble 
in  moments  of  wrath  or  admiration.  .  .  .  But  this  ugli- 
ness disappeared  under  the  light  of  his  little  eyes  with 
pupils  between  green  and  olive  color, — mild  eyes  with  a 
canine  expression  of  resignation,  when  the  captain  made 
fun  of  his  beliefs. 

Toni  was  a  "man  of  ideas."  Ferragut  only  knew  of 
his  having  four  or  five,  but  they  were  hard,  crystallized, 
tenacious,  like  the  mollusks  that  stick  to  the  rocks  and 
eventually  become  a  part  of  the  stony  excrescence.  He 
had  acquired  them  in  twenty-five  years  of  Mediterranean 
coast  service  by  reading  all  the  periodicals  of  lyric  radi- 
calism that  were  thrust  upon  him  on  entering  the  har- 
bors. Furthermore,  at  the  end  of  every  journey  was 
Marseilles ;  and  in  one  of  its  little  side  alleys  was  a  red 
room  adorned  with  symbolic  columns  where  sailors  of  all 
races  and  tongues  met  together,  fraternally  understanding 
each  other  by  means  of  mysterious  signs  and  ritual  words. 

Whenever  Toni  entered  a  South  American  port  after  a 
long  absence,  he  particularly  admired  the  rapid  progress 
of  the  new  villages, — enormous  wharves  constructed 
within  the  year,  interminable  streets  that  were  not  in  ex- 
istence on  his  former  voyage,  shady  and  elegant  parks, 
replacing  old,  dried-up  lakes. 

"That's  only  natural,"  he  would  affirm  roundly.  "With 
£?od  reason  they  are  republics !" 


104  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Upon  entering  the  Spanish  ports,  the  slightest  devi- 
ation in  the  docking,  a  discussion  with  the  official  em- 
ployees, the  lack  of  space  for  a  good  anchorage  would 
make  him  smile  with  bitterness.  "Unfortunate  country! 
.  .  .  Everything  here  is  the  work  of  the  altar  and  the 
throne!"  " 

In  the  Thames,  and  before  the  docks  of  Hamburg, 
Captain  Ferragut  would  chaff  his  subordinate. 

"There's  no  republic  here,  Toni !  .  .  .  But,  neverthe- 
less this  is  rather  worth  while." 

But  Toni  never  gave  in.  He  would  contract  his  hairy 
visage,  making  a  mental  effort  to  formulate  his  vague 
ideas,  clothing  them  with  words.  In  the  very  background 
of  these  grandeurs  existed  the  confirmation  of  the  idea 
he  was  so  vainly  trying  to  express.  Finally  he  admitted 
himself  checkmated,  but  not  convinced. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  explain  it;  I  haven't  the  words 
for  it  ...  but  .  .  .  it's  the  people  who  are  doing  all 
this." 

Upon  receiving  in  Teneriffe  the  news  of  war,  he 
sumrned  up  all  his  doctrines  with  the  terseness  of  a  victor. 

"In  Europe  there  are  too  many  kings.  ...  If  all  the 
nations  could  be  republics!  .  .  .  This  calamity  just  had 
to  come!" 

And  this  time  Ferragut  did  not  venture  to  ridicule 
the  single-mindedness  of  his  second. 

All  the  people  of  the  Mare  Nostrum  showed  great  en- 
thusiasm over  the  new  business  aspect  of  things.  The 
seamen  who  in  former  voyages  were  taciturn,  as  though 
foreseeing  the  ruin  or  exhaustion  of  their  captain,  were 
now  working  as  eagerly  as  though  they  were  going  to 
participate  in  the  profits. 

In  the  forward  mess  room  many  of  them  set  them- 
selves to  work  on  commercial  calculations.  The  first 
trip  of  the  war  would  be  equal  to  ten  of  their  former 


FREYA  105 

ones;  the  second,  perhaps,  might  bring  in  the  profit  of 
twenty.  And  recalling  their  former  bad  business  ven- 
tures, they  rejoiced  for  Ferragut,  with  the  same  disin- 
terestedness as  the  first  officer.  The  engineers  were  no 
longer  called  to  the  captain's  cabin  in  order  to  contrive 
new  economies  in  fuel.  They  had  to  take  advantage  of 
the  time  and  opportunity;  and  the  Mare  Nostrum  was 
now  going  at  full  steam,  making  fourteen  knots  an  hour, 
like  a  passenger  vessel,  stopping  only  when  its  course 
was  blocked  at  the  entrance  of  the  Mediterranean  by  an 
English  destroyer,  sending  out  an  officer  to  make  sure 
that  they  were  not  carrying  on  board  enemy  passengers. 

Abundance  reigned  equally  between  bridge  and  fore- 
castle where  were  the  sailors'  quarters  and  the  galley, — 
the  space  respected  by  every  one  on  the  boat  as  the  incon- 
testable realm  of  Uncle  Caragol. 

This  old  man,  nicknamed  "Caracol"  (snail),  another 
old  friend  of  Ferragut's,  was  the  ship's  cook,  and,  al- 
though he  did  not  dare  to  talk  as  familiarly  to  the  captain 
as  in  former  times,  the  tone  of  his  voice  made  it  under- 
stood that  mentally  he  was  continuing  to  use  the  old, 
affectionate  form.  He  had  known  Ulysses  when  he  used 
to  run  away  from  the  classrooms  to  row  in  the  har- 
bor and,  on  account  of  the  bad  state  of  his  eyes,  he 
had  finally  retired  from  the  navigation  of  coast  vessels, 
descending  to  be  a  simple  bargeman.  His  gravity  and 
corpulence  had  something  almost  priestly  in  character. 
He  was  the  obese  type  of  Mediterranean  with  a  little 
head,  voluminous  neck  and  triple  chin,  seated  on  the  stern 
of  his  fishing  skiff  like  a  Roman  patrician  on  the  throne  of 
his  trireme. 

His  culinary  talent  suffered  eclipse  whenever  rice  did 
not  figure  as  the  fundamental  basis  of  his  compositions. 
All  that  this  food  could  give  of  itself,  he  knew  perfectly. 
In  the  tropical  ports,  the  crews  surfeited  with  bananas, 


io6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

pineapples,  and  alligator-pears,  would  greet  with  en- 
thusiasm the  apparition  of  a  great  frying  pan  of  rice 
with  cod  and  potatoes,  or  a  casserole  of  rice  from  the 
oven  with  its  golden  crust  perforated  by  the  ruddy 
faces  of  garbanzos  and  points  of  black  sausage.  At  other 
times,  under  the  leaden-colored  sky  of  the  northern  seas, 
the  cook  made  them  recall  their  distant  native  land  by 
giving  them  the  monastic  rice  dish  with  beet  roots,  or  but- 
tery rice  with  turnips  and  beans. 

On  Sundays  and  the  fiestas  of  the  Valencian  saints 
who  for  Uncle  Caragol  were  the  first  in  heaven, — San 
Vicente  Mdrtir,  San  Vicente  Ferrer,  La  Virgin  de  los 
Desamparados  and  the  Cristo  del  Grao — would  appear 
the  smoking  paella,  a  vast,  circular  dish  of  rice  upon 
whose  surface  of  white,  swollen  grains  were  lying  bits  of 
various  fowls.  The  cook  loved  to  surprise  his  following 
by  distributing  rotund,  raw  onions,  with  the  whiteness  of 
marble  and  an  acrid  surprise  that  brought  tears  to  the 
eyes.  They  were  a  princely  gift  maintained  in  secret. 
One  had  only  to  break  them  with  one  blow  and  their 
sticky  juices  would  gush  forth  and  lose  themselves  in  the 
palate  like  crisp  mouthfuls  of  a  sweet  and  spicy  bread, 
alternating  with  knifefuls  of  rice.  The  boat  was  at 
times  near  Brazil  in  sight  of  Fernando  de  Norofia, — yet 
even  while  viewing  the  conical  huts  of  the  negroes  in- 
stalled on  an  island  under  an  equatorial  sun,  the  crews 
could  almost  believe — thanks  to  Uncle  Caragol's  magic — 
that  they  were  eating  in  a  cabin  of  the  farmland  of  Va- 
lencia, as  they  passed  from  hand  to  hand  the  long-spouted 
jug  filled  with  strong  wine  from  Liria. 

When  they  anchored  in  ports  where  fish  was  abundant, 
he  achieved  the  great  work  of  cooking  a  rice  abanda. 
The  cabin  boys  would  bring  to  the  captain's  table  the  pot 
in  which  was  boiled  the  rich  sea  food  mixed  with  lob- 
sters, mussels,  and  every  kind  of  shell-fish  available,  but 


FREYA  107 

the  chef  invariably  reserved  for  himself  the  honor  of 
offering  the  accompanying  great  platter  with  its  pyramid 
of  rice,  every  grain  golden  and  distinct. 

Boiled  apart  (abanda)  each  grain  was  full  of  the  suc- 
culent broth  of  the  stew-pot.  It  was  a  rice  dish  that  con- 
tained within  it  the  concentration  of  all  the  sustenance 
of  the  sea.  As  though  he  were  performing  a  liturgical 
ceremony,  the  chef  would  go  around  delivering  half  a 
lemon  to  each  one  of  those  seated  at  the  table.  The  rice 
should  only  be  eaten  after  moistening  it  with  this  per- 
fumed dew  which  called  to  mind  the  image  of  an  oriental 
garden.  Only  the  unfortunate  beings  who  lived  inland 
were  ignorant  of  this  exquisite  confection,  calling  any 
mess  of  rice  a  Valencian  rice  dish. 

Ulysses  would  humor  the  cook's  notions,  carrying  the 
first  spoonful  to  his  mouth  with  a  questioning  glance.  .  .  . 
Then  he  would  smile,  giving  himself  up  to  gastric  in- 
toxication. "Magnificent,  Uncle  Caragol!"  His  good 
humor  made  him  affirm  that  only  the  gods  should  be 
nourished  with  rice  abanda  in  their  abodes  on  Mount 
Olympus.  He  had  read  that  in  books.  And  Caragol, 
divining  great  praise  in  all  this,  would  gravely  reply, 
"That  is  so,  my  captain."  Toni  and  th<  other  officers  by 
this  time  would  be  chewing  away  with  ,a<is  down,  only 
interrupting  their  feast  to  regret  that  the  old  Ganymede 
should  have  skimped  them  when  measuring  the  ambrosia. 

In  his  estimation,  oil  was  as  precious  as  rice.  In  the 
time  of  their  money-losing  navigation,  when  the  captain 
was  making  special  efforts  at  economy,  Caragol  used  to 
keep  an  especially  sharp  eye  on  the  great  oil  bottles  in  his 
galley,  for  he  suspected  that  the  cabin  boys  and  the 
young  seamen  appropriated  it  to  dress  their  hair  when 
they  wanted  to  play  the  dandy,  using  the  oil  as  a  pomade. 
Every  head  that  put  itself  within  reach  of  his  disturbed 
glance  he  grasped  between  his  arms,  raising  it  to  his 


io8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

nose.  The  slightest  perfume  of  olive  oil  would  arouse  his 
wrath.  "Ah,  you  thief !"  .  .  .  And  down  would  fall  his 
enormous  hand,  soft  and  heavy  as  a  fencing  gauntlet. 

Ulysses  believed  him  quite  capable  of  climbing  the 
bridge,  and  declaring  that  navigation  could  not  go  on  be- 
cause of  his  having  exhausted  the  leathern  bottles  of 
amethyst-colored  liquid  proceeding  from  the  Sierra  de 
Espadan. 

In  the  ports,  his  short-sighted  eyes  recognized  imme- 
diately the  nationality  of  the  boats  anchored  on  both  sides 
of  the  Mare  Nostrum.  His  nose  would  sniff  the  air 
sadly.  "Nothing!  .  .  ."  They  were  unsavory  barks, 
barks  from  the  North  that  prepared  their  dinner  with 
lard  or  butter, — Protestant  barks,  perhaps. 

Sometimes  he  would  sneak  along  the  gunwale,  follow- 
ing an  intoxicating  trail  until  he  planted  himself  in  front 
of  the  galley  of  the  neighboring  boat,  breathing  in  its  rich 
perfume.  "Hello,  brothers!"  Impossible  to  tool  him, 
they  were  probably  Spaniards  and,  if  not,  they  were 
from  Genoa  or  Naples, — in  short,  were  compatriots  ac- 
customed to  live  and  eat  in  all  latitudes  just  as  though 
they  were  in  their  own  little  inland  sea.  Soon  they 
would  begin  a  .ir>eech  in  the  Mediterranean  idiom,  a 
mixture  of  Sj^nish,  Provencal  and  Italian,  invented  by 
the  hybrid  peoples  of  the  African  coast  from  Egypt  to 
Morocco.  Sometimes  they  would  send  each  other  pres- 
ents, like  those  that  are  exchanged  between  tribes, — 
fruits  from  distant  countries.  At  other  times,  suddenly 
inimical,  without  knowing  why,  they  would  shake  their 
fists  over  the  railing,  yelling  insults  at  each  other  in 
which,  between  every  two  or  three  words,  would  appear 
the  names  of  the  Virgin  and  her  holy  Son. 

This  was  the  signal  for  Uncle  Caragol,  religious  soul, 
to  return  in  haughty  silence  to  his  galley.  Toni,  the 
mate,  used  to  make  fun  of  his  devout  enthusiasm.  On 


FREYA 


109 


the  other  hand,  the  foremast  hands,  materialistic  and 
gluttonous,  used  to  listen  to  him  with  deference,  because 
he  was  the  one  who  doled  out  the  wine  and  the  choicest 
tid-bits.  The  old  man  used  to  speak  to  them  of  the 
Cristo  del  Grao,  whose  pictures  occupied  the  most  promi- 
nent site  in  the  kitchen,  and  they  would  all  listen  as  to 
a  new  tale,  to  the  story  of  the  arrival  by  sea  of  the 
sacred  image,  mounted  upon  a  ladder  in  a  boat  that  had 
dissolved  in  smoke  after  discharging  its  miraculous  cargo. 

This  had  been  when  the  Grao  was  no  more  than  a 
group  of  huts  far  from  the  walls  of  Valencia  and  threat- 
ened by  the  raids  of  the  Moorish  pirates.  For  many 
years  Caragol,  barefooted,  had  carried  this  sacred  ladder 
on  his  shoulder  on  the  day  of  the  fiesta.  Now  other 
men  of  the  sea  were  enjoying  such  honor  and  he,  old 
and  half-blind,  would  be  waiting  among  the  public  for 
the  procession  to  pass  in  order  that  he  might  throw 
himself  upon  the  enormous  relic,  touching  his  clothes 
to  the  wood. 

All  his  outer  garments  were  sanctified  by  this  contact. 
In  reality  they  weren't  very  many,  since  he  usually 
strolled  about  the  boat  very  lightly  clad,  with  the  im- 
modesty of  a  man  who  sees  poorly  and  considers  him- 
self above  human  preoccupations. 

A  shirt  with  the  tail  always  floating,  and  a  pair  of 
pantaloons  of  dirty  cotton  or  yellow  flannel,  according 
to  the  season,  constituted  his  entire  outfit.  The  bosom 
of  the  shirt  was  open  on  all  occasions,  leaving  visible 
a  thatch  of  white  hair.  The  pantaloons  were  fastened 
together  with  a  single  button.  A  palm  leaf  hat  always 
covered  his  head  even  when  he  was  working  among 
his  cooking  pots. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  could  not  be  shipwrecked  nor 
suffer  any  harm  while  it  carried  him  aboard.  In  the 
.days  of  tempest,  when  waves  were,  sweeping  the  deck 


no  MARE  NOSTRUM 

from  prow  to  poop,  and  the  sailors  were  treading  warily, 
fearing  that  a  heavy  sea  might  carry  them  overboard, 
Caragol  would  stick  his  head  out  through  the  door  of 
the  galley,  scorning  a  danger  which  he  could  not  see. 

The  great  water-spouts  would  pass  over  him,  even 
putting  out  his  fires,  but  only  increasing  his  faith. 
"Courage,  boys!  Courage,  lads!"  The  Cristo  del  Grao 
had  special  charge  of  them  and  nothing  bad  could  happen 
to  the  ship.  .  .  .  Some  of  the  seamen  were  silent,  while 
others  said  this  and  that  about  the  image  without  arous- 
ing the  indignation  of  the  old  devotee.  God,  who  sends 
dangers  to  the  men  of  the  sea,  knows  that  their  bad  words 
lack  malice. 

His  religiosity  extended  to  the  very  deeps.  He  did 
not  wish  to  say  anything  about  the  ocean  fish,  for  they 
inspired  him  with  the  same  indifference  as  those  cold 
and  unperfumed  boats  that  were  ignorant  of  olive  oil, 
and  all  that  was  cooked  with  "pomade."  They  must  be 
heretics. 

He  was  better  acquainted  with  the  fish  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  even  came  to  believe  that  they  must  be  good 
Catholics,  since  in  their  own  way  they  proclaimed  the 
glory  of  God.  Standing  near  the  taffrail  on  torrid  even- 
ings in  the  tropics,  he  would  recount,  in  honor  of  the 
inhabitants  of  his  distant  sea,  the  portentous  miracle 
which  had  taken  place  in  the  glen  of  Alboraya. 

A  priest  was  one  day  fording  on  horseback  the  mouth 
of  a  river  in  order  to  carry  the  eucharist  to  a  dying 
person,  when  his  beast  stumbled  and  the  ciborium,  fall- 
ing open,  the  Hosts  fell  out  and  were  carried  off  by  the 
current.  From  that  time  on,  mysterious  lights  glowed 
every  night  on  the  water,  and  at  sunrise  a  swarm  of 
little  fishes  would  come  to  range  themselves  opposite 
the  glen,  their  heads  emerging  from  the  water,  in  order 
to  show  the.  Host  which  each  one  of  them  was  carrying 


FREYA  in 

in  his  mouth.  In  vain  the  fishermen  wished  to  take 
them  away  from  them.  They  fled  to  the  inland  sea  with 
their  treasures.  Only  when  the  clergy,  with  cross  erect 
and  with  the  same  priest,  fell  on  their  knees  in  the  glen 
did  they  decide  to  approach ;  and  one  after  the  other  de- 
posited his  Host  in  the  ciborium,  retiring  then  from 
wave  to  wave,  gracefully  waggling  their  little  tails. 

In  spite  of  the  vague  hope  for  a  jug  of  choice  wine 
that  was  animating  most  of  his  hearers,  a  murmur  of  in- 
credulity always  arose  at  the  end  of  this  tale.  The  de- 
vout Caragol  then  became  as  wrathful  and  foul-mouthed 
as  a  prophet  of  old  when  he  considered  his  faith  in  dan- 
ger. "Who  was  that  son  of  a  flea?  .  .  .  V/ho  was  that 
son  of  a  flea  daring  to  doubt  what  I  myself  have' 
seen  ?  .  .  ."  And  what  he  had  seen  was  the  fiesta  of  the 
Peixet  that  was  celebrated  every  year,  simply  listening  to 
most  learned  men  discoursing  about  the  miracle  in  a  com- 
memorative chapel  built  on  the  banks  of  the  glen. 

This  prodigy  of  the  little  fishes  was  almost  always 
followed  with  what  he  called  the  miracle  of  the  Peixbt, 
endeavoring  with  the  weight  of  such  a  marvelous  fish 
tale  to  crush  the  doubts  of  the  impious. 

The  galley  of  Alphonso  V  of  Aragon  (the  only  sailor 
king  of  Spain),  upon  coming  out  of  the  Gulf  of  Naples, 
once  struck  a  hidden  rock  near  the  island  of  Capri  which 
took  away  a  side  of  the  ship  without  making  it  leak;  and 
the  vessel  continued  on  with  all  sails  spread,  carrying 
the  king,  the  ladies  of  his  court,  and  the  retinue  of  mail- 
clad  barons.  Twenty  days  afterward  they  arrived  at 
Valencia  safe  and  sound  like  all  sailors  who  in  moments 
of  danger  ask  aid  of  the  Virgen  del  Puig.  Upon  inspect- 
ing the  hull  of  the  galley,  the  master  callzers  beheld  a 
monstrous  fish  detach  itself  from  its  bottom  with  the 
tranquillity  cf  an  upright  person  wl^o  has  fulfilled  his 
duty.  It  was  a  dolphin  sent  by  the  most  holy  Senora  in 


H2  MARE  NOSTRUM 

order  that  his  side  might  stop  up  the  open  breach.  And 
thus,  like  a  plug,  it  had  sailed  from  Naples  to  Valencia 
without  allowing  a  drop  of  water  to  pass  in. 

The  chef  would  not  admit  any  criticisms  nor  protests. 
This  miracle  was  undeniable.  He  had  seen  it  with  his 
own  eyes,  and  they  were  good.  He  had  seen  it  in  an 
ancient  picture  in  the  monastery  of  Puig,  everything 
appearing  on  the  tablet  with  the  realism  of  truth, — the 
galley,  the  king,  the  peixbt  and  the  Virgin  above  giving 
the  order. 

At  this  juncture  the  breeze  would  flap  the  narrator's 
shirt  tail,  disclosing  his  abdomen  divided  into  hemispheres 
by  the  tyranny  of  its  only  pantaloon  button. 

"Uncle  Caragol,  look  out !"  warned  a  teasing  voice. 

The  holy  man  would  smile  with  the  seraphic  calm 
of  one  who  sees  beyond  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  ex- 
istence, and  would  begin  the  relation  of  a  new  miracle. 

Ferragut  used  to  attribute  his  cook's  periods  of  ex- 
altation to  the  lightness  of  his  clothing  in  all  weathers. 
Within  him  was  burning  a  fire  incessantly  renewed. 
On  foggy  days  he  would  climb  to  the  bridge  with  some 
glasses  of  a  smoking  drink  that  he  used  to  call  calentets. 
Nothing  better  for  men  that  had  to  pass  long  hours 
in  the  inclement  weather  in  motionless  vigilance!  It 
was  coffee  mixed  with  rum,  but  in  unequal  proportions, 
having  more  alcohol  than  black  liquid.  Toni  would  drink 
rapidly  all  the  glasses  offered.  The  captain  would  re- 
fuse them,  asking  for  clear  coffee. 

His  sobriety  was  that  of  the  ancient  sailor, — the 
sobriety  of  Father  Ulysses  who  used  to  mix  wine  with 
water  in  all  his  libations.  The  divinities  of  the  old  sea 
did  not  love  alcoholic  drinks.  The  white  Amphitrite  and 
the  Nereids  only  accepted  on  their  altars  the  fruits  of 
the  earth,  sacrifices  of  doves,  libations  of  milk.  Perhaps 
because  of  this  the  seafaring  men  of  the  Mediterranean, 


FREYA 

following  an  hereditary  tendency,  looked  upon  intoxica- 
tion as  the  vilest  of  degradations.  Even  those  who  were 
not  temperate  avoided  getting  frankly  drunk  like  the  sail- 
ors of  other  seas,  dissimulating  the  strength  of  their  al- 
coholic beverage  with  coffee  and  sugar. 

Caragol  was  the  understudy  charged  with  drinking 
all  which  the  captain  refused,  together  with  certain 
others  which  he  dedicated  to  himself  in  the  mystery 
of  the  galley.  On  warm  days  he  manufactured  refres- 
quets,  and  these  refreshments  were  enormous  glasses, 
half  oF  water  and  half  of  rum  upon  a  great  bed  of 
sugar, — a  mixture  that  made  one  pass  like  a  lightning 
flash,  without  any  gradations,  from  vulgar  serenity  to 
most  angelic  intoxication. 

The  captain  would  scold  him  upon  seeing  his  in- 
flamed and  reddened  eyes.  He  was  going  to  make 
himself  blind.  .  .  .  But  the  guilty  one  was  not  moved 
by  this  threat.  He  had  to  celebrate  the  prosperity  of 
the  vessel  in  his  own  way.  And  of  this  prosperity  the 
most  interesting  thing  for  him  was  his  ability  to  use 
oil  and  brandy  lavishly  without  any  fear  of  recrimina- 
tions when  the  accounts  were  settled.  Cristo  del  Grao! 
.  .  .  would  that  the  war  would  last  forever!  .  .  . 

The  Mare  Nostrum's  third  voyage  from  South  Amer- 
ica to  Europe  came  suddenly  to  an  end  in  Naples,  where 
they  were  unloading  wheat  and  hides.  A  collision  at  the 
entrance  of  the  port,  with  an  English  hospital  ship  that 
was  going  to  the  Dardanelles,  injured  her  stern,  carrying 
away  a  part  of  the  screw. 

Toni  roared  with  impatience  upon  learning  that  they 
would  have  to  remain  nearly  a  month  in  enforced  idle- 
ness. Italy  had  not  yet  intervened  in  the  war,  but  her 
defensive  precautions  were  monopolizing  all  naval  indus- 
tries. It  was  not  possible  to  make  the  repairs  sooner, 
although  Ferragut  well  knew  what  this  loss  of  time 


H4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

would  represent  in  his  business.  Valuable  freight  was 
waiting  for  him  in  Marseilles  and  Barcelona,  but,  wish- 
ing to  tranquillize  himself  and  to  pacify  his  mate,  he 
would  say  repeatedly: 

"England  will  indemnify  us.  ...  The  English  are 
just/' 

And  in  order  to  soothe  his  impatience  he  went  ashore. 

Compared  with  other  celebrated  Italian  cities,  Naples 
did  not  appear  to  him  of  much  importance.  Its  true 
beauty  was  its  immense  gulf  between  hills  of  orange  trees 
and  pines,  with  a  second  frame  of  mountains  one  of 
which  outlined  upon  the  azure  heavens  its  eternal  crest 
of  volcanic  vapors. 

The  town  did  not  abound  in  famous  edifices.  The 
monarchs  of  Naples  had  generally  been  foreigners  who 
had  resided  far  away  and  had  governed  through  their 
delegates.  The  best  streets,  the  palaces,  the  monumental 
fountain,  had  come  from  the  Spanish  viceroys.  A  sov- 
ereign of  mixed  origin,  Charles  the  III,  Castilian  by  birth 
and  Neapolitan  at  heart,  had  done  the  most  for  the  city. 
His  building  enthusiasm  had  embellished  the  ancient 
districts  with  works  similar  to  those  that  he  erected  years 
afterward,  upon  occupying  the  throne  of  Spain. 

After  admiring  the  Grecian  statuary  in  the  museum, 
and  the  excavated  objects  that  revealed  the  intimate  life 
of  the  ancients,  Ulysses  threaded  the  tortuous  and  often 
gloomy  arteries  of  the  popular  districts. 

There  were  streets  clinging  to  the  slopes  forming 
landings  flanked  with  narrow  and  very  high  houses. 
Every  vacant  space  had  its  balconies,  and  from  every 
railing  to  its  opposite  were  extended  lines  spread  with 
clothes  of  different  colors,  hung  out  to  dry.  Neapolitan 
.fertility  made  these  little  alleys  seethe  with  people. 
Around  the  open-air  kitchens  there  crowded  patrons, 


FREYA  115 

eating,  while  standing,  their  boiled  macaroni  or  bits  of 
meat. 

The  hucksters  were  hawking  their  goods  with  melodi- 
ous, song-like  cries,  and  cords  to  which  little  baskets 
were  fastened  were  lowered  down  to  them  from  bal- 
conies. The  bargaining  and  purchases  reached  from  the 
depth  of  the  street  gutters  to  the  top  of  the  seventh 
floor,  but  the  flocks  of  goats  climbed  the  winding  steps 
with  their  customary  agility  in  order  to  be  milked  at  the 
various  stair  landings. 

The  wharves  of  the  Marinela  attracted  the  captain 
because  of  the  local  color  of  this  Mediterranean  port. 
Italian  unity  had  torn  down  and  reconstructed  much  of 
it,  but  there  still  remained  standing  various  rows  of  little 
low-roofed  houses  with  white  or  pink  fagades,  green 
doors,  and  lower  floors  further  forward  than  the  upper 
ones,  serving  as  props  for  galleries  with  wooden  balus- 
trades. Everything  there  that  was  not  of  brick  was  of 
clumsy  carpentry  resembling  the  work  of  ship  calkers. 
Iron  did  not  exist  in  these  terrestrial  constructions  sug- 
gestive of  the  sailboat  whose  rooms  were  as  dark  as 
staterooms.  Through  the  windows  could  be  seen  great 
conch-shells  upon  the  chests  of  drawers,  harsh  and  child- 
ish oil  paintings  representing  frigates,  and  multi-colored 
shells  from  distant  seas. 

These  dwellings  repeated  themselves  in  all  the  ports 
of  the  Mediterranean  just  as  though  they  were  the  work 
of  the  same  hand.  As  a  child,  Ferragut  had  seen  them 
in  the  Grao  of  Valencia  and  continually  ran  across  them 
in  Barcelona,  in  the  suburbs  of  Marseilles,  in  old  Nice, 
in  the  ports  of  the  western  islands,  and  in  the  sections 
of  the  African  coast  occupied  by  Maltese  and  Sicilians. 

Over  the  town,  lined  up  along  the  Marinela,  the  church- 
es of  Naples  reared  their  domes  and  towers  with  glazed 
roofs,  green  and  yellow,  which  appeared  more  like  pin- 


n6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

nacles  of  Oriental  baths  than  the  roofs  of  Christian  tem- 
ples. 

The  barefooted  lazzarone  with  his  red  cap  no  longer 
existed,  but  the  crowd, — clad  like  the  workmen  of  all 
ports — still  gathered  around  the  daubed  poster  that 
represented  a  crime,  a  miracle  or  a  prodigious  specific, 
listening  in  silence  to  the  harangue  of  the  narrator  or 
charlatan.  The  old  popular  comedians  were  declaiming 
with  heroic  gesticulations  the  epic  octavos  of  Tasso,  and 
harps  and  violins  were  sounding  accompaniments  to 
the  latest  melody  that  Naples  had  made  fashionable 
throughout  the  entire  world.  The  stands  of  the  oyster- 
men  constantly  sent  forth  an  organic  perfume  from  the 
spent  wave,  and  all  around  them  empty  shells  scattered 
their  disks  of  pearly  lime  over  the  mud. 

Near  to  the  ancient  Captaincy  of  the  port,  the  palace 
of  Charles  III, — blue  and  white,  with  an  image  of  the 
immaculate  conception, — were  assembled  the  unloading 
trucks,  whose  teams  still  preserved  their  ancient  hybrid 
originality.  In  some  instances  the  shafts  were  occupied 
by  a  white  ox,  sleek  with  enormous  and  widely  branching 
horns,  an  animal  similar  to  those  that  used  to  figure  in 
the  religious  ceremonies  of  the  ancients.  At  his  right 
would  be  hooked  a  horse,  at  his  left,  a  great  raw-boned 
mule,  and  this  triple  and  discordant  team  appeared  in 
all  the  carts,  standing  immovable  before  the  ships  the 
length  of  the  docks,  or  dragging  their  heavy  wheels  up 
the  slopes  leading  to  the  upper  city. 

In  a  few  days  the  captain  grew  tired  of  Naples  and  its 
bustle.  In  the  cafes  of  the  Street  of  Toledo  and  the 
Gallery  of  Humbert  I,  he  had  to  defend  himself  from 
some  noisy  youths  with  low-cut  vests,  butterfly  neckties 
and  little  felt  hats  perched  upon  their  manes,  who,  in 
low  voices,  proposed  to  him  unheard-of  spectacles  or- 
ganized for  the  diversion  of  foreigners. 


FREYA  117 

He  had  also  seen  enough  of  the  paintings  and  domestic 
objects  excavated  from  the  ancient  cities.  The  lewdness 
of  the  secret  cabinets  finally  irritated  him.  It  appeared 
to  him  the  reverse  of  recreation  to  contemplate  so  many 
childish  fantasies  of  sculpture  and  painting  having  the 
antique  symbol  of  masculinity  as  its  principal  motif. 

One  morning  he  boarded  a  train  and,  after  skirting  the 
smoking  mountain  of  Vesuvius,  passing  between  rose- 
colored  villages  surrounded  with  vineyards,  he  stopped 
at  the  station  of  Pompeii. 

From  the  funereal  solitudes  of  hotels  and  restaurants, 
the  guides  came  forth  like  a  suddenly  awakened  swarm 
of  wasps,  lamenting  that  the  war  had  cut  off  the  tourist 
trade.  Perhaps  he  would  be  the  only  one  who  would 
come  that  day.  "Signor,  at  your  service,  at  any  price 
whatever!  .  .  ."  But  the  sailor  continued  on  alone. 
Always,  in  recalling  Pompeii,  he  had  wished  to  see  it 
again  alone,  absolutely  alone,  so  as  to  get  a  more  direct 
impression  of  the  ancient  life. 

His  first  view  of  it  had  been  seventeen  years  ago  when, 
as  a  mate  of  a  Catalan  sailing  vessel  anchored  in  the 
port  of  Naples,  he  had  taken  advantage  of  the  cheapness 
of  Sunday  rates  and  had  seen  everything  as  one  of  a 
crowd  that  was  pushing  and  treading  on  everybody's 
feet  so  as  to  listen  to  the  nearest  guide. 

At  the  head  of  the  expedition  had  been  a  priest, 
young  and  elegant,  a  Roman  Monsignor,  clad  in  silk,  and 
with  him  two  showy  foreign  women,  who  were  always 
climbing  up  in  the  highest  places,  raising  their  skirts 
rather  high  for  fear  of  the  star  lizards  that  were  writhing 
in  and  out  of  the  ruins.  Ferragut,  in  humble  admira- 
tion, always  remained  below,  glimpsing  the  country  from 
behind  their  legs.  "Ay!  Twenty-two  years!  .  .  ." 
Afterwards  when  he  heard  Pompeii  spoken  of,  it  always 
evoked  in  his  memory  several  strata  of  images.  "Very 


ii8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

beautiful!  Very  interesting!"  And  in  his  mind's  eye 
he  saw  again  the  palaces  and  temples,  but  as  a  secondary 
consideration,  like  a  shrouded  background,  while  in  the 
forefront  were  four  magnificent  legs  standing  forth, — a 
human  colonnade  of  slender  shafts  swathed  in  transpar- 
ent black  silk. 

The  solitude  so  long  desired  for  his  second  visit  was 
now  aggressively  in  evidence.  In  this  deserted,  dead 
city  there  were  to-day  no  other  sounds  than  the  whir- 
ring of  insect  wings  over  the  plants  beginning  to  clothe 
themselves  with  springtime  verdure,  and  the  invisible 
scampering  of  reptiles  under  the  layers  of  ivy. 

At  the  gate  of  Herculaneum,  the  guardian  of  the  little 
museum  left  Ferragut  to  examine  in  peace  the  excava- 
tions of  the  various  corpses,  petrified  Pompeiians  of 
plaster  still  in  the  attitudes  of  terror  in  which  death 
had  surprised  them.  He  did  not  abandon  his  post  in 
order  to  trouble  the  captain  with  his  explanations;  he 
scarcely  raised  his  eyes  from  the  newspaper  that  he 
had  before  him.  The  news  from  Rome, — the  intrigues 
of  the  German  diplomats,  the  possibility  that  Italy  might 
enter  the  war, — were  absorbing  his  entire  attention. 

Afterwards  on  the  solitary  streets  the  sailor  found 
everywhere  the  same  preoccupation.  His  footsteps  re- 
sounded in  the  sunlight  as  though  treading  the  depths  of 
the  hollow  tombs.  The  moment  he  stopped,  silence  again 
enveloped  him, — "A  silence  of  two  thousand  years," 
thought  Ferragut  to  himself,  and  in  the  midst  of  this 
primeval  silence  sounded  far-away  voices  in  the  violence 
of  a  sharp  discussion.  They  were  the  guardians  and 
the  employees  of  the  excavations  who,  lacking  work, 
were  gesticulating  and  insulting  each  other  in  these 
strongholds  twenty  centuries  old  so  profoundly  isolated 
from  patriotic  enthusiasm  or  fear  of  the  horrors  of  war. 

Ferragut,  map  in  hand,  passed  among  these  groups 


FREYA 


119 


without  annoyance  from  insistent  guides.  For  two  hours 
he  fancied  himself  an  inhabitant  of  ancient  Pompeii  who 
had  remained  alone  in  the  city  on  a  holiday  devoted  to 
the  rural  divinities.  His  glance  could  reach  to  the  very 
end  of  the  straight  streets  without  encountering  persons 
or  things  recalling  modern  times. 

Pompeii  appeared  to  him  smaller  than  ever  in  this 
solitude, — an  intersection  of  narrow  roads  with  high 
sidewalks  paved  with  polygonal  blocks  of  blue  lava.  In 
its  interstices  Spring  was  forming  green  grass  plots 
dotted  with  flowers.  Carriages, — of  whose  owners  not 
even  the  dust  was  left, — had  with  their  deep  wheels 
opened  up  ridges  in  the  pavement  more  than  a  thousand 
years  ago.  In  every  crossway  was  a  public  fountain 
with  a  grotesque  mask  which  had  spouted  water  through 
its  mouth. 

Certain  red  letters  on  the  walls  were  announcements 
of  elections  to  be  held  in  the  beginning  of  that  era, — 
candidates  for  sedile  or  duumvir  who  were  recommended 
to  the  Pompeiian  voters.  Some  doors  showed  above, 
the  phallus  for  conjuring  the  evil  eyes ;  others,  a  pair  of 
serpents  intertwined,  emblem  of  family  life.  In  the 
corners  of  the  alleyways,  a  Latin  verse  engraved  on  the 
walls  asked  the  passerby  to  observe  the  laws  of  sanita- 
tion, and  there  still  could  be  seen  on  the  stuccoed  walls 
caricatures  and  scribbling,  handiwork  of  the  little  street 
gamins  of  Caesar's  day. 

The  houses  were  lightly  constructed  upon  floors 
cracked  by  minor  earthquakes  before  the  arrival  of  the 
final  catastrophe.  The  lower  floors  were  of  bricks  or 
concrete  and  the  others,  of  wood,  had  been  devoured  by 
the  volcanic  fire,  only  the  stairways  remaining. 

In  this  gracious  city  of  amiable  and  easy-going  life, 
more  Greek  than  Roman,  all  the  lower  floors  of  the  ple- 
beian houses  had  been  occupied  by  petty  traders.  They 


120  MARE  NOSTRUM 

were  shops  with  doors  the  same  size  as  the  establish- 
ment, four-sided  caves  like  the  Arabian  zocos  whose  fur- 
thermost corners  were  visible  to  the  buyer  stopping  in 
the  street.  Many  still  had  their  stone  counters  and 
their  large  earthen  jars  for  the  sale  of  wine  and  oil. 
The  private  dwellings  had  no  fagades,  and  their  outer 
walls  were  smooth  and  unapproachable,  but  with  an 
interior  court  providing  the  surrounding  chambers  with 
light  as  in  the  palaces  of  the  Orient.  The  doors  were 
merely  half -doors  of  escape,  parts  of  larger  ones.  All 
life  was  concentrated  around  the  interior,  the  central 
patio,  rich  and  magnificent,  adorned  with  fish  ponds, 
statues  and  flower-bordered  beds. 

Marble  was  rare.  The  columns  constructed  of  bricks 
were  covered  with  a  stucco  that  offered  a  fine  surface 
for  painting.  Pompeii  had  been  a  polychrome  city.  All 
the  columns,  red  or  yellow,  had  capitals  of  divers  colors. 
The  center  of  the  walls  was  generally  occupied  with  a 
little  picture,  usually  erotic,  painted  on  black  varnished 
walls  varied  with  red  and  amber  hues.  On  the  friezes 
were  processions  of  cupids  and  tritons,  between  rustic 
and  maritime  emblems. 

Tired  of  his  excursion  through  the  dead  city,  Ferragut 
seated  himself  on  a  stone  bench  among  the  ruins  of  the 
temple,  and  looked  over  the  map  spread  out  on  his 
knees,  enjoying  the  titles  with  which  the  most  interesting 
constructions  had  been  designated  because  of  a  mosaic 
or  a  painting, — Villa  of  Diomedes,  the  House  of  Melea- 
ger,  of  the  wounded  Adonis,  of  the  Labryinth,  of  the 
Faun,  of  the  Black  Wall.  The  names  of  the  streets  were 
not  less  interesting:  The  Road  of  the  Hot  Baths,  the 
Road  of  the  Tombs,  the  Road  of  Abundance,  the  Road 
of  the  Theaters. 

The  sound  of  footsteps  made  the  sailor  raise  his  head. 
Two  ladies  were  passing,  preceded  by  a  guide.  One  was 


FREYA 


121 


tall,  with  a  firm  tread.  They  were  wearing  face-veils 
and  still  another  larger  veil  crossing  behind  and  coming 
over  the  arms  like  a  shawl.  Ferragut  surmised  a  great 
difference  in  the  ages  of  the  two.  The  stout  one  was 
moving  along  with  an  assumed  gravity.  Her  step  was 
quick,  but  with  a  certain  authority  she  planted  on  the 
ground  her  large  feet,  loosely  shod  and  with  low  heels. 
The  younger  one,  taller  and  more  slender,  tripping  on- 
wards with  little  steps  like  a  bird  that  only  knows  how 
to  fly,  was  teetering  along  on  high  heels. 

The  two  looked  uneasily  at  this  man  appearing  so  un- 
expectedly among  the  ruins.  They  had  the  preoccupied 
and  timorous  air  of  those  going  to  a  forbidden  place  or 
meditating  a  bad  action.  Their  first  movement  was  an 
impulse  to  go  back,  but  the  guide  continued  on  his  way 
so  imperturbably  that  they  followed  on. 

Ferragut  smiled.  He  knew  where  they  were  going. 
The  little  cross  street  of  the  Lupanares  was  near.  The 
guard  would  open  a  door,  remaining  on  watch  with 
dramatic  anxiety  as  though  he  were  endangering  his 
job  by  this  favor  in  exchange  for  a  tip.  And  the  two 
ladies  were  about  to  see  some  tarnished,  clumsy  paintings 
showing  nothing  new  or  original  in  the  world, — nude, 
yellowish  figures,  just  alike  at  first  glance  with  no  other 
novelty  than  an  exaggerated  emphasis  on  sex  distinc- 
tion. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Ulysses  abandoned  his  bench, 
for  his  eyes  had  tired  of  the  severe  monotony  of  the 
ruins.  In  the  street  of  the  Hot  Baths  (Thermae},  he 
again  visited  the  house  of  the  tragic  poet.  Then  he  ad- 
mired that  of  Pansa,  the  largest  and  most  luxurious  in 
the  city.  This  Pansa  had  undoubtedly  been  the  most 
pretentious  citizen  of  Pompeii.  His  dwelling  occupied 
an  entire  block.  The  xystus,  or  garden,  adjoining  the 
house  had  been  laid  out  like  a  Grecian  landscape  with 


*22  MARE  NOSTRUM 

cypresses  and  laurels  between  squares  of  roses  and  vio- 
lets. 

Following  along  the  exterior  wall  of  the  garden,  Fer- 
ragut  again  met  the  two  ladies.  They  were  looking  at 
the  flowers  across  the  bars  of  the  door.  The  younger 
one  was  expressing  in  English  her  admiration  for  some 
roses  that  were  flinging  their  royal  color  around  the 
pedestal  of  an  old  faun. 

Ulysses  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  show  off  in  a  gal- 
lant and  intrepid  fashion.  He  wished  to  pay  the  two 
foreign  ladies  some  theatrical  homage.  He  felt  that 
necessity  of  attracting  attention  in  some  gay  and  dashing 
way  that  characterizes  Spaniards  far  from  home. 

With  the  agility  of  a  mast-climber,  he  leaped  the  gar- 
den wall  in  one  bound.  The  two  ladies  gave  a  cry  of 
surprise,  as  though  they  had  witnessed  some  impossible 
maneuver.  This  audacity  appeared  to  upset  the  ideas 
of  the  older  one,  accustomed  to  life  in  disciplined  towns 
that  rigidly  respect  every  established  prohibition.  Her 
first  movement  was  of  flight,  so  as  not  to  be  mixed  up 
in  the  escapade  of  this  stranger.  But  after  a  few  steps 
she  paused.  The  younger  one  was  smiling,  looking  at 
the  wall,  and  as  the  captain  reappeared  upon  it  she 
almost  clapped  with  enthusiasm  as  though  applauding  a 
dangerous  acrobatic  feat. 

Believing  them  to  be  English,  the  sailor  spoke  in  that 
language  when  presenting  to  them  the  two  roses  that  he 
carried  in  his  hand.  They  were  merely  flowers,  like  all 
others,  grown  in  a  land  like  other  lands,  but  the  frame 
of  the  thousand-year-old  wall,  the  propinquity  of  the 
alcoves  and  drinking  shops  of  a  house  built  by  Pansa  in 
the  time  of  the  first  Caesars,  gave  them  the  interest  of 
roses  two  thousand  years  old,  miraculously  preserved. 

The  largest  and  most  luxuriant  he  gave  to  the  young 
woman,  and  she  accepted  it  smilingly  as  her  natural 


FREYA 


123 


right.  Her  companion  as  soon  as  she  acknowledged  the 
gift,  appeared  impatient  to  get  away  from  the  stranger. 
"Thanks !  .  .  .  Thanks !"  And  she  pushed  along  the 
other  one,  who  had  not  yet  finished  smiling, — the  two 
going  hurriedly  away.  A  corner  adorned  with  a  foun- 
tain soon  hid  their  steps. 

When  Ulysses,  after  a  light  lunch  in  the  restaurant 
of  Diomedes,  came  running  to  the  station,  the  train  was 
just  about  to  start.  He  was  planning  to  see  Salerno, 
celebrated  in  the  Middle  Ages  for  its  physicians  and  navi- 
gators, and  then  the  ruined  temples  of  Psestum.  As  he 
climbed  into  the  nearest  coach,  he  fancied  that  he  spied 
the  veils  of  the  two  ladies  vanishing  behind  a  little  door 
that  was  just  closing. 

In  the  station  of  Salerno  he  again  caught  sight  of 
them  in  a  distant  hack  disappearing  in  a  neighboring 
street,  and  during  the  afternoon  he  frequently  ran  across 
them  as  travelers  will  in  a  small  city.  They  met  one 
another  in  the  harbor,  so  fatally  threatened  with  bars  of 
moving  sand ;  they  saw  each  other  in  the  gardens  border- 
ing the  sea,  near  the  monument  of  Carlo  Pisacana,  the 
romantic  duke  of  San  Juan,  a  precursor  of  Garibaldi, 
who  died  in  extreme  youth  for  the  liberty  of  Italy. 

The  young  woman  smiled  whenever  she  met  him.  Her 
companion  passed  on  with  a  casual  glance,  trying  to 
ignore  his  presence. 

At  night  they  saw  more  of  each  other,  as  they  were 
stopping  at  the  same  hotel,  a  lodging  house  like  all  those 
in  the  small  ports  with  excellent  meals  and  dirty  rooms. 
They  had  adjoining  tables,  and  after  a  coldly  acknowl- 
edged greeting,  Ferragut  had  a  good  look  at  the  two 
ladies  who  were  speaking  very  little  and  in  a  low  tone, 
fearing  to  be  overheard  by  their  neighbor. 

Upon  looking  at  the  older  one  without  her  veils,  he 
found  his  original  impression  confirmed.  In  other  times, 


124  MARE  NOSTRUM 

perhaps,  she  might  have  destroyed  the  peace  of  male 
admirers,  but  she  could  now  continue  her  hostile  and  dis- 
tant attitude  with  impunity.  The  captain  was  not  at  all 
affected  by  it. 

She  must  have  been  over  forty.  Her  excessive  flesh 
still  had  a  certain  freshness,  the  result  of  hygienic  care 
and  gymnastic  exercise.  On  the  other  hand,  her  white 
complexion  showed  underneath  it  a  yellowish  subcutane- 
ous, granular  condition  that  looked  as  though  made  up  of 
particles  of  bran.  Upon  her  ancient  switch,  reddish  in 
tone,  were  piled  artificial  curls  hiding  bald  spots  and 
gray  hairs.  Her  green  pupils,  when  freed  from  their 
near-sighted  glasses,  had  the  tranquil  opacity  of  ox-eyes ; 
but  the  minute  these  gold-mounted  crystals  were  placed 
between  her  and  the  outer  world,  the  two  glaucous  drops 
took  on  a  sharpness  which  fairly  perforated  persons  and 
objects.  At  other  times  they  appeared  a  glacial  and 
haughty  void,  like  the  circle  that  a  sword  traces. 

The  young  woman  was  less  intractable.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  smiling  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes, 
while  her  back  was  half  turned  to  Ferragut,  acknowl- 
edging his  mute  and  scrutinizing  admiration.  She  had 
her  hair  loosely  arranged  like  a  woman  who  is  not 
afraid  of  naturalness  in  her  coiffure,  and  lets  her  waving 
locks  peep  out  under  her  hat  in  all  their  original  will- 
fulness. 

She  was  a  dainty  ash-blonde  with  a  high  color  in 
striking  contrast  to  her  general  delicacy  of  tone.  Her 
great,  almond-shaped,  black  eyes  appeared  like  those  of 
an  Oriental  dancer,  and  were  yet  further  prolonged  by 
skillful  retouching  of  shadows  that  augmented  the  seduc- 
tive contrast  with  her  dull  gold  hair. 

The  whiteness  of  her  skin  became  very  evident  when 
her  arm  showed  outside  her  sleeve  and  at  the  opening 
of  her  low-necked  dress.  But  this  whiteness  was  now, 


FREYA  125 

temporarily  effaced  by  a  ruddy  mask.  Her  vigorous 
beauty  had  been  fearlessly  exposed  to  the  sun  and  the 
breath  of  the  sea,  and  a  scarlet  triangle  emphasized  the 
sweet  curve  of  her  bosom,  accentuating  the  low  cut  of 
her  gown.  Upon  her  sunburned  throat  a  necklace  of 
pearls  hung  in  moonlight  drops.  Further  up,  in  a  face 
tanned  by  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  the  mouth 
parted  its  two  scarlet,  bow-shaped  lips  with  an  audacious 
and  serene  smile,  showing  the  reflection  of  her  strong 
and  handsome  teeth. 

Ferragut  reviewed  his  past  without  finding  a  single 
woman  that  could  be  exactly  compared  with  her.  The 
distant  perfume  of  her  person  and  her  genteel  elegance 
reminded  him  of  certain  dubious  ladies  who  were  always 
traveling  alone  when  he  was  captain  of  the  transatlantic 
liners.  But  these  acquaintances  had  been  so  rapid  and 
were  so  far  away !  .  .  .  Never  in  his  history  as  a  world- 
rover  had  he  had  the  good  luck  to  chance  upon  a  woman 
just  like  this  one. 

Again  exchanging  glances  with  her,  he  felt  that  throb 
in  the  heart  and  flash  in  the  brain  which  accompany 
a  lightning-like  and  unexpected  discovery.  .  .  .  He  had 
known  that  woman:  he  could  not  recall  where  he  had 
seen  her,  but  he  was  sure  that  he  must  have  known 
her. 

Her  face  told  his  memory  nothing,  but  those  eyes  had 
exchanged  glances  with  his  on  other  occasions.  In  vain 
he  reflected,  concentrating  his  thoughts.  .  .  .  And  the 
queer  thing  about  it  all  was  that,  by  some  mysterious 
perception,  he  became  absolutely  certain  that  she  was 
doing  the  same  thing  at  the  very  same  moment.  She 
also  had  recognized  him,  and  was  evidently  making  great 
effort  to  give  him  a  name  and  place  in  her  memory. 
He  had  only  to  notice  the  frequency  with  which  she 
turned  her  eyes  toward  him  and  her  new  smile,  more 


126  MARE  NOSTRUM 

confident  and  spontaneous,  such  as  she  would  give  to  an 
old  friend. 

Had  her  dragon  not  been  present,  they  would  have 
talked  together  enthusiastically,  instinctively,  like  two 
restless,  curious  beings  wishing  to  clear  up  the  mys- 
tery; but  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  were  always  gleaming 
authoritative-y  and  inimically,  coming  between  the  two. 
Several  times  the  fat  lady  spoke  in  a  language  that 
reached  Ferragut  confusedly  and  which  was  not  Eng- 
lish, and  their  dinner  was  hardly  finished  before  they 
disappeared  just  as  they  had  done  in  the  streets  of  Pom- 
peii,— the  older  one  evidently  influencing  the  other  with 
her  iron  will. 

The  following  morning  they  all  met  again  in  a  first- 
class  coach  in  the  station  of  Salerno.  Undoubtedly  they 
had  the  same  destination.  As  Ferragut  began  to  greet 
them,  the  hostile  dame  deigned  to  return  his  salutation, 
looking  then  at  her  companion  with  a  questioning  expres- 
sion. The  sailor  guessed  that  during  the  night  they  had 
been  discussing  him  while  he,  under  the  same  roof,  had 
been  struggling  uselessly,  before  falling  asleep,  to  con- 
centrate his  recollections. 

He  never  knew  with  certainty  just  how  the  conversa- 
tion began.  He  found  himself  suddenly  talking  in  Eng- 
lish with  the  younger  one,  just  as  on  the  preceding 
morning.  She,  with  the  audacity  that  quickly  makes 
the  best  of  a  dubious  situation,  asked  him  if  he  was  a 
sailor.  And  upon  receiving  an  affirmative  response,  she 
then  asked  if  he  was  Spanish. 

"Yes,  Spanish." 

Ferragut's  answer  was  followed  by  a  triumphant 
glance  toward  the  chaperone,  who  seemed  to  relax  a  lit- 
tle and  lose  her  hostile  attitude.  And  for  the  first  time 
she  smiled  upon  the  captain  with  her  mouth  of  bluish- 


FREYA  127 

rose  color,  her  white  skin  sprinkled  with  yellow,  and  her 
glasses  of  phosphorescent  splendor. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  woman  was  talking  on  and  on4 
verifying  her  extraordinary  powers  of  memory. 

She  had  traveled  all  over  the  world  without  forgetting" 
a  single  one  of  the  places  which  she  had  seen.  She 
was  able  to  repeat  the  titles  of  the  eighty  great  hotels 
in  which  those  who  make  the  world's  circuit  may  stay. 
Upon  meeting  with  an  old  traveling  companion,  she  al- 
ways recognized  his  face  immediately,  no  matter  how 
short  a  time  she  had  seen  him,  and  oftentimes  she  could 
even  recall  his  name.  This  last  was  what  she  had  been 
puzzling  over,  wrinkling  her  brows  with  the  mental  ef- 
fort. 

"You  are  a  captain?  .  .  .  Your  name  is?  .  .  ." 

And  she  smiled  suddenly  as  her  doubts  came  to  an 
end. 

"Your  name  is,"  she  said  positively,  "Captain  Ulysses 
Ferragut." 

In  long  and  agreeable  silence  she  relished  the  sailor's 
astonishment.  Then,  as  though  she  pitied  his  stupefac- 
tion, she  made  further  explanations.  She  had  made  a 
trip  from  Buenos  Ayres  to  Barcelona  in  a  steamship 
which  he  had  commanded. 

"That  was  six  years  ago/'  she  added.  "No;  seven 
years  ago." 

Ferragut,  who  had  been  the  first  to  suspect  a  former 
acquaintance,  could  not  recall  this  woman's  name  and 
place  among  the  innumerable  passengers  that  filled  his 
memory.  He  thought,  nevertheless,  that  he  must  lie  for 
gallantry's  sake,  insisting  that  he  remembered  her  well. 

"No,  Captain;  you  do  not  remember  me.  I  was  ac- 
companied by  my  husband  and  you  never  looked  at  me. 
.  .  .  All  your  attentions  on  that  trip  were  devoted  to  a 
very  handsome  widow  from  Brazil.'' 


128  MARE  NOSTRUM 

She  said  this  in  Spanish,  a  smooth,  sing-song  Spanish 
learned  in  South  America,  to  which  her  foreign  accent 
contributed  a  certain  childish  charm.  Then  she  added 
coquettishly : 

"I  know  you,  Captain.  Always  the  same!  .  .  .  That 
affair  of  the  rose  at  Pompeii  was  very  well  done.  ...  It 
was  just  like  you." 

The  grave  lady  of  the  glasses,  finding  herself  for- 
gotten, and  unable  to  understand  a  word  of  the  new 
language  employed  in  the  conversation,  now  spoke  aloud, 
rolling  her  eyes  in  her  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  Spain!  .  .  ."  she  said  in  English.  "The  land 
of  knightly  gentlemen.  .  .  .  Cervantes  .  .  .  Lope!  .  .  . 
The  Cid!  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  hunting  for  more  celebrities.  Suddenly 
she  seized  the  sailor's  arm,  exclaiming  as  energetically  as 
though  she  had  just  made  a  discovery  through  the  little 
door  of  the  coach.  "Calderon  de  la  Barca!"  Ferragut 
saluted  her.  "Yes,  Senora."  After  that  the  younger 
woman  thought  that  it  was  necessary  to  present  her  com- 
panion. 

"Doctor  Fedelmann.  ...  A  very  wise  woman  dis- 
tinguished in  philology  and  literature." 

After  clasping  the  doctor's  hand,  Ferragut  indiscreetly 
Bet  himself  to  work  to  gather  information. 

"The  Senora  is  German?"  he  said  in  Spanish  to  the 
younger  one. 

The  gold-rimmed  spectacles  appeared  to  guess  the 
question  and  shot  a  restless  gleam  at  her  companion. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "My  friend  is  a  Russian,  or  rather 
a  Pole." 

"And  you,  are  you  Polish,  too?"  continued  the  sailor. 

"No,  I  am  Italian." 

,     In  spite  of  the  assurance  with  which  she  said  this, 
Ferragut    felt   tempted   to   exclaim,    "You   little   liar!" 


FREYA 


129 


Then,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  full,  black,  audacious  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  he  began  to  doubt.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she 
was  telling  the  truth. 

Again  he  found  himself  interrupted  by  the  wordiness 
of  the  doctor.  She  was  now  speaking  in  French,  repeat- 
ing her  eulogies  on  Ferragut's  country.  She  could  read 
Castilian  in  the  classic  works,  but  she  would  not  venture 
to  speak  it.  "Ah,  Spain!  Country  of  noble  tradi- 
tions. .  .  ."  And  then,  seeking  to  relieve  these  eulogies 
by  some  strong  contrast,  she  twisted  her  face  into  a 
wrathful  expression. 

The  train  was  running  along  the  coast,  having  on  one 
side  the  blue  desert  of  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  and  on  the 
other  the  red  and  green  mountains  dotted  with  white 
villages  and  hamlets.  The  doctor  took  it  all  in  with 
iier  gleaming  glasses. 

"A  country  of  bandits,"  she  said,  clenching  her  fists. 
"Country  of  mandolin-twangers,  without  honor  and 
without  gratitude !  .  .  ." 

The  girl  laughed  at  this  outburst  with  that  hilarity 
of  light-heartedness  in  which  no  impressions  are  durable, 
considering  as  of  no  importance  anything  which  does 
not  bear  directly  upon  its  own  egoism. 

From  a  few  words  that  the  two  ladies  let  fall,  Ulysses 
inferred  that  they  had  been  living  in  Rome  and  had 
only  been  in  Naples  a  short  time,  perhaps  against  their 
will.  The  younger  one  was  well  acquainted  with  the 
country,  and  her  companion  was  taking  advantage  of 
this  enforced  journey  in  order  to  see  what  she  had  so 
many  times  admired  in  books. 

The  three  alighted  in  the  station  of  Battipaglia  in 
order  to  take  the  train  for  Paestum.  It  was  a  rather 
long  wait,  and  the  sailor  invited  them  to  go  into  the 
restaurant,  a  little  wooden  shanty  impregnated  with  the 
double  odor  of  resin  and  wine. 


130  MARE  NOSTRUM 

This  shack  reminded  both  Ferragut  and  the  young 
woman  of  the  houses  improvised  on  the  South  American 
deserts;  and  again  they  began  to  speak  of  their  oceanic 
voyage.  She  finally  consented  to  satisfy  the  captain's 
curiosity. 

"My  husband  was  a  professor,  a  scholar  like  the  doc- 
tor. .  .  .  We  were  a  year  in  Patagonia,  making  scientific 
explorations." 

She  had  made  the  dangerous  journey  through  an 
ocean  of  desert  plains  that  had  spread  themselves  out 
before  them  as  the  expedition  advanced;  she  had  slept 
in  ranch  houses  whose  roofs  shed  bloodthirsty  insects; 
she  had  traveled  on  horseback  through  whirlwinds  of 
sand  that  had  shaken  her  from  the  saddle ;  she  had  suf- 
fered the  tortures  of  hunger  and  thirst  when  losing  the 
way,  and  she  had  passed  nights  in  intemperate  weather 
with  no  other  bed  than  her  poncho  and  the  trappings 
of  the  horses.  Thus  they  had  explored  those  lakes  of  the 
Andes  between  Argentina  and  Chile  that  guard  in  their 
pure  and  untouched  desert  solitude  the  mystery  of  the 
earliest  days  of  creation. 

Rovers  over  these  virgin  lands,  shepherds  and  bandits, 
used  to  talk  of  glimpses  of  gigantic  animals  at  nightfall 
on  the  shores  of  the  lakes  devouring  entire  meadows 
with  one  gulp;  and  the  doctor,  like  many  other  sages, 
had  believed  in  the  possibility  of  finding  a  surviving  pre- 
historic animal,  a  beast  of  the  monstrous  herds  anterior 
to  the  coming  of  man,  still  dwelling  in  this  unexplored 
section  of  the  planet. 

They  saw  skeletons  dozens  of  yards  long  in  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Cordilleras  so  frequently  agitated  by  volcanic 
cataclysms.  In  the  neighborhood  of  the  lakes  the  guides 
pointed  out  to  them  the  hides  of  devoured  herds,  and 
enormous  mountains  of  dried  material  that  appeared  to 
have  been  deposited  by  some  monster.  But  no  matter 


FREYA  131 

how  far  they  penetrated  into  the  solitude,  they  were 
always  unable  to  find  any  living  descendant  of  prehistoric 
fauna. 

The  sailor  listened  absent-mindedly,  thinking  of  some- 
thing else  that  was  quickening  his  curiosity. 

"And  you,  what  is  your  name?"  he  said  suddenly. 

The  two  women  laughed  at  this  question,  amusing  be- 
cause so  unexpected. 

"Call  me  Freya.  It  is  a  Wagnerian  name.  It  means 
the  earth,  and  at  the  same  time  liberty.  .  .  .  Do  you  like 
Wagner?" 

And  before  he  could  reply  she  added  in  Spanish,  with 
a  Creole  accent  and  flashing  eyes : 

"Call  me,  if  you  wish,  'the  merry  widow/  The  poor 
doctor  died  as  soon  as  we  returned  to  Europe." 

The  three  had  to  run  to  catch  the  train  ready  to  start 
for  Psestum.  The  landscape  was  changing  on  both  sides 
of  the  way,  as  now  they  were  crossing  over  marshy  por- 
tions of  land.  On  the  soft  meadows  flocks  of  buffaloes, 
rude  animals  that  appeared  carved  out  in  hatchet  strokes, 
were  wading  and  grazing. 

The  doctor  spoke  of  Psestum,  the  ancient  Poseidonia, 
the  city  of  Neptune,  founded  by  the  Greeks  of  Sybaris 
six  centures  before  Christ. 

Commercial  prosperity  once  dominated  the  entire  coast. 
The  gulf  of  Salerno  was  called  by  the  Romans  the  Gulf 
of  Paestum.  And  this  city  with  mountains  like  those 
of  Athens  had  suddenly  become  extinguished  without  be- 
ing swallowed  up  by  the  sea,  and  with  no  volcano  to  cover 
it  with  ashes. 

Fever,  the  miasma  of  the  fens,  had  been  the  deadly 
lava  for  this  Pompeii.  The  poisonous  air  had  caused 
the  inhabitants  to  flee,  and  the  few  who  insisted  upon 
living  within  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  temples  had  had 
to  escape  from  the  Saracen  invasions,  founding  in  the 


132  MARE  NOSTRUM 

neighboring  mountains  a  new  country — the  humble  town 
of  Capaccio  Vecchio.  Then  the  Norman  kings,  fore- 
runners of  Frederick  II  (the  father  of  Dona  Constanza, 
the  empress  beloved  by  Ferragut),  had  plundered  the 
entire  deserted  city,  carrying  off  with  them  its  columns 
and  sculpture. 

All  the  medieval  constructions  of  the  kingdom  of 
Naples  were  the  spoils  of  Paestum.  The  doctor  recalled 
the  cathedral  of  Salerno,  seen  the  afternoon  before, 
where  Hildebrand,  the  most  tenacious  and  ambitious  of 
the  popes,  was  buried.  Its  columns,  its  sarcophagi,  its 
bas-reliefs  had  come  from  this  Grecian  city,  forgotten  for 
centuries  and  centuries  and  only  in  modern  times — thanks 
to  the  antiquarians  and  artists — recovering  its  fame. 

In  the  station  of  Paestum,  the  wife  of  the  only  employee 
looked  curiously  at  this  group  arriving  after  the  war  had 
blocked  off  the  trail  of  tourists. 

Freya  spoke  to  her,  interested  in  her  malarial  and  re- 
signed  aspect.  They  were  yet  in  good  time.  The  spring 
sun  was  warming  up  these  lowlands  just  as  in  midsum- 
mer,  but  she  was  still  able  to  resist  it.  Later,  during  the 
summer,  the  guards  of  the  ruins  and  the  workmen  in  the 
excavations  would  have  to  flee  to  their  homes  in  the 
mountains,  handing  the  country  over  to  the  reptiles  and 
insects  of  the  marshy  fields. 

The  lodging  keeper  and  his  wife  in  the  little  station 
were  the  only  evidences  of  humankind  still  able  to  exist 
in  this  solitude,  trembling  with  fever,  trying  to  endure 
the  corrupt  air,  the  poisonous  sting  of  the  mosquito,  and 
the  solar  fire  that  was  sucking  from  the  mud  the  vapors 
of  death.  Every  two  years  this  humble  stopping  place 
through  which  passed  the  lucky  ones  of  the  earth, — the 
millionaires  of  two  hemispheres,  beautiful  and  curious 
dames,  rulers  of  nations,  and  great  artists, — was  obliged 
to  change  its  station-master. 


FREYA 


133 


The  three  tourists  passed  near  the  remains  of  an 
aqueduct  and  an  antique  pavement.  Then  they  went 
through  the  Porta  della  Sirena,  an  entrance  arch  into  a 
forgotten  quarter  of  the  city,  and  continued  along  a  road 
bordered  on  one  side  by  marshy  lands  of  exuberant  vege- 
tation and  on  the  other  by  the  long  mud  wall  of  a  grange, 
through  whose  mortar  were  sticking  out  fragments  of 
stones  or  columns.  On  turning  the  last  corner,  the  im- 
posing spectacle  of  the  dead  city,  still  surviving  in  the 
magnificent  proportions  of  its  temples,  presented  itself  to 
view. 

There  were  three  of  these  temples,  and  their  colonnades 
stood  forth  like  mast  heads  of  ships  becalmed  in  a  sea 
of  verdure.  The  doctor,  guide-book  in  hand,  was  point- 
ing them  out  with  masterly  authority — that  was  Nep- 
tune's, that  Ceres',  and  that  was  called  the  Basilica  with- 
out any  special  reason. 

Their  grandeur,  their  solidity,  their  elegance  made  the 
edifices  of  Rome  sink  into  insignificance.  Athens  alone 
could  compare  the  monuments  of  her  Acropolis  with 
these  temples  of  the  most  severe  Doric  style.  That  of 
Neptune  had  well  preserved  its  lofty  and  massive  col- 
umns,— as  close  together  as  the  trees  of  a  nursery, — enor- 
mous trunks  of  stone  that  still  sustained  the  high  entab- 
lature, the  jutting  cornice  and  the  two  triangular  walls 
of  its  fagades.  The  stone  had  taken  on  the  mellow  color 
of  the  cloudless  countries  where  the  sun  toasts  readily 
and  the  rain  does  not  deposit  a  grimy  coating. 

The  doctor  recalled  the  departed  beauties  and  the  old 
covering  of  these  colossal  skeletons, — the  fine  and  com- 
pact coating  of  stucco  which  had  closed  the  pores  of  the 
stone,  giving  it  a  superficial  smoothness  like  marble, — the 
vivid  colors  of  its  flutings  and  walls  making  the  antique 
city  a  mass  of  polychrome  monuments.  This  gay  decora- 
tion had  become  volatilized  through  the  centuries  and  its 


134  MARE  NOSTRUM 

colors,  borne  away  by  the  wind,  had  fallen  like  a  rain 
of  dust  upon  a  land  in  ruins. 

Following  an  old  guard,  they  climbed  the  blue,  tiled 
steps  of  the  temple  of  Neptune.  Above,  within  four  rows 
of  columns,  was  the  real  sanctuary,  the  cella.  Their 
footsteps  on  the  tiled  flags,  separated  by  deep  cracks 
filled  with  grass,  awoke  all  the  animal  world  that  was 
drowsing  there  in  the  sun. 

These  actual  inhabitants  of  the  city, — enormous  liz- 
ards with  green  backs  covered  with  black  warts, — ran 
in  all  directions.  In  their  flight  they  scurried  blindly  over 
the  feet  of  the  visitors.  The  doctor  raised  her  skirts  in 
order  to  avoid  them,  at  the  same  time  breaking  into 
nervous  laughter  to  hide  her  terror. 

Suddenly  Freya  gave  a  cry,  pointing  to  the  base  of 
the  ancient  altar.  An  ebony-hued  snake,  his  sides  dotted 
with  red  spots,  was  slowly  and  solemnly  uncoiling  his 
circles  upon  the  stones.  The  sailor  raised  his  cane,  but 
before  he  could  strike  he  felt  his  arm  grasped  by  two 
nervous  hands.  Freya  was  throwing  herself  upon  him 
with  a  pallid  face  and  eyes  dilated  with  fear  and  entreaty. 

"No,  Captain!  .  .  .  Leave  it  alone !" 

Ulysses  thrilled  upon  feeling  the  contact  of  her  firm, 
curving  bosom  and  noting  her  respiration,  her  warm 
breath  charged  with  distant  perfume.  It  would  have 
suited  him  if  she  had  remained  in  this  position  a  long 
time,  but  Freya  freed  herself  in  order  to  advance  toward 
the  reptile,  coaxing  it  and  holding  out  her  hands  to  it  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  caress  a  domestic  animal. 
The  black  tail  of  the  serpent  was  just  slipping  away  and 
disappearing  between  two  square  tiles.  The  doctor  who 
had  fled  down  the  steps  at  this  apparition,  by  her  repeated 
calls,  obliged  Freya  also  to  descend. 

The  captain's  aggressive  attitude  awoke  in  his  com- 
panion a  nervous  animosity.  She  believed  she  knew  this 


FREYA  135 

reptile.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  divinity  of  the  dead 
temple  that  had  changed  its  form  in  order  to  live  among 
the  ruins.  This  serpent  must  be  twenty  centuries  old.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  Ferragut  she  would  have  been  able 
to  have  taken  it  up  in  her  hands.  .  .  .  She  would  have 
spoken  to  it.  ...  She  was  accustomed  to  converse  with 
others.  .  .  . 

Ulysses  was  about  to  express  his  doubts  rudely  as 
to  the  mental  equilibrium  of  the  exasperated  widow  when 
the  doctor  interrupted  them.  She  was  contemplating  the 
swampy  plains  of  acanthus  and  ferns  trembling  under  the 
shrill  chirping  of  the  cicadas,  and  this  spectacle  of  green 
desolation  made  her  recall  the  roses  of  Paestum  of  which 
the  poets  of  ancient  Rome  had  sung.  She  even  recited 
some  Latin  verses,  translating  them  to  her  hearers  so  as 
to  make  them  understand  that  the  rose  bushes  of  this 
land  used  to  bloom  twice  a  year.  Freya  smoothed  out 
her  brow  and  began  to  smile  again.  She  forgot  her 
recent  ill  humor  and  expressed  a  great  longing  for  one 
of  the  marvelous  rose  bushes :  and  at  this  caprice  of  child- 
ish vehemence,  Ferragut  spoke  to  the  custodian  with 
authority.  He  had  to  have  at  once  a  rose  bush  from 
Psestum,  cost  what  it  might. 

The  old  fellow  made  a  bored  gesture.  Everybody 
asked  the  same  thing,  and  he  who  belonged  to  that 
country  had  never  seen  a  rose  of  Psestum.  .  .  .  Some- 
times, just  in  order  to  satisfy  the  whim  of  tourists,  he 
would  bring  rose  bushes  from  Capaccio  Vecchio  and 
other  mountain  villages,— rose  bushes  just  like  others 
with  no  difference  except  in  price.  .  .  .  But  he  didn't 
wish  to  take  advantage  of  anybody.  He  was  sad  and 
greatly  troubled  over  the  possibility  of  war. 

"I  have  eight  sons,"  he  said  to  the  doctor,  because  she 
seemed  to  be  the  most  suitable  one  to  receive  his  conn- 


136  MARE  NOSTRUM 

dences.     "If  they  mobilize  the  army,  six  of  them  will 
leave  me." 

And  he  added  with  resignation : 

"That's  the  way  it  ought  to  be  if  we  would  end  forever, 
in  one  blow,  our  eternal  enmity  with  the  Goth.  My  sons 
will  battle  against  them,  just  as  my  father  fought." 

The  doctor  stalked  haughtily  away,  and  then  said  in 
a  low  voice  to  her  companions  that  the  old  guard  was  an 
imbecile. 

They  wandered  for  two  hours  through  the  ancient  dis- 
trict of  the  city, — exploring  the  network  of  its  streets, 
the  ruins  of  the  amphitheater  and  the  Porta  Aurea  which 
opened  upon  a  road  flanked  with  tombs.  By  the  Porta  di 
Mare  they  climbed  to  the  walls,  ramparts  of  great  lime- 
stone blocks,  extending  a  distance  of  five  kilometers. 
The  sea,  which  from  the  lowlands  had  looked  like  a 
narrow  blue  band,  now  appeared  immense  and  luminous, 
— a  solitary  sea  with  a  feather-like  crest  of  smoke,  with- 
out a  sail,  given  completely  over  to  the  sea-gulls. 

The  doctor  walked  stiffly  ahead  of  them,  still  ill- 
humored  about  the  guide's  remark  and  consulting  the 
pages  of  her  guide  book.  Behind  her  Ulysses  came  close 
up  to  Freya,  recalling  their  former  contact. 

He  thought  that  it  would  be  an  easy  matter  now  to 
get  possession  of  this  capricious  and  free-mannered 
woman.  "Sure  thing,  Captain!"  The  rapid  triumphs 
that  he  had  always  had  in  his  journeys  assured  him  that 
there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  success.  It  was 
enough  for  him  to  see  the  widow's  smile,  her  passionate 
eyes,  and  the  little  tricks  of  malicious  coquetry  with  which 
she  responded  to  his  gallant  advances.  "Forward,  sea- 
wolf  !"  .  .  .  He  took  her  hand  while  she  was  speaking 
of  the  beauty  of  the  solitary  sea,  and  the  hand  yielded 
without  protest  to  his  caressing  fingers.  The  doctor 
was  far  away  and,  sighing  hypocritically,  he  encircled 


FREYA  137 

Freya's  waist  with  his  other  arm  while  he  inclined  his 
head  upon  her  open  throat  as  though  he  were  going  to 
kiss  her  pearls. 

In  spite  of  his  strength,  he  found  himself  energetically 
repulsed  and  saw  Freya  freed  from  his  arms,  two  steps 
away,  looking  upon  him  with  hostile  eyes  that  he  had 
not  noticed  before. 

"None  of  your  child's  play,  Captain !  ...  It  is  useless 
with  me.  .  .  .  You  are  just  wasting  time." 

And  she  said  no  more.  Her  stiffness  and  her  silence 
during  the  rest  of  the  walk  made  the  sailor  understand 
the  enormity  of  his  mistake.  In  vain  he  tried  to  keep 
beside  the  widow.  She  always  maneuvered  that  the  doc- 
tor should  come  between  the  two. 

Upon  returning  to  the  station  they  took  refuge  from 
the  heat  in  a  little  waiting  room  with  dusty  velvet  divans. 
In  order  to  beguile  the  time  while  waiting  for  the  train, 
Freya  took  from  her  handbag  a  gold  cigarette-case  and 
the  light  smoke  of  Egyptian  tobacco  charged  with  opium 
whirled  among  the  shafts  of  sunlight  from  the  partly- 
opened  windows. 

Ferragut,  who  had  gone  out  in  order  to  ascertain  the 
exact  hour  of  the  arrival  of  the  train,  on  returning 
stopped  near  the  door,  amazed  at  the  animation  with 
which  the  two  ladies  were  speaking  in  a  new  language. 
Recollections  of  Hamburg  and  Bremen  came  surging  up 
in  his  memory.  His  companions  were  talking  German 
with  the  ease  of  a  familiar  idiom.  At  sight  of  the  sailor, 
they  instantly  continued  their  conversation  in  English. 

Wishing  to  take  part  in  the  dialogue,  he  asked  Freya 
how  many  languages  she  spoke. 

"Very  few, — no  more  than  eight.  The  doctor,  per- 
haps, knows  twenty.  She  knows  the  languages  of  peo- 
ple who  passed  away  many  centuries  ago. 

And  the  young  woman  said  this  with  gravity,  without 


138  MARE  NOSTRUM 

looking  at  him,  as  though  she  had  lost  forever  that  smile 
of  a  light  woman  which  had  so  deceived  Ferragut. 

In  the  train  she  became  more  like  a  human  being,  even 
losing  her  offended  manner.  They  were  soon  going  to 
separate.  The  doctor  grew  less  and  less  approachable 
as  the  cars  rolled  towards  Salerno.  It  was  the  chilliness 
that  appears  among  companions  of  a  day,  when  the  hour 
of  separation  approaches  and  each  one  draws  into  him- 
self, not  to  be  seen  any  more. 

Words  fell  flat,  like  bits  of  ice,  without  finding  any 
echo  in  their  fall.  At  each  turn  of  the  wheel,  the  im- 
posing lady  became  more  reserved  and  silent.  Every- 
thing had  been  said.  They,  too,  were  going  to  remain 
in  Salerno  in  order  to  take  a  carriage-trip  along  the  gulf. 
They  were  going  to  Amalfi  and  would  pass  the  night  on 
the  Alpine  peak  of  Ravello,  a  medieval  city  where  Wag- 
ner had  passed  the  last  months  of  his  life,  before  dying 
in  Venice.  Then,  passing  over  to  the  Gulf  of  Naples, 
they  would  rest  in  Sorrento  and  perhaps  might  go  to  the 
island  of  Capri. 

Ulysses  wished  to  say  that  his  line  of  march  was  ex- 
actly the  same,  but  he  was  afraid  of  the  doctor.  Fur- 
thermore, their  trip  was  to  be  in  a  vehicle  which  they 
had  already  rented  and  they  would  not  offer  him  a  seat. 

Freya  appeared  to  surmise  his  sadness  and  wished  to 
console  him. 

"It  is  a  short  trip.  No  more  than  three  days.  .  .  . 
Soon  we  shall  be  in  Naples." 

The  farewell  in  Salerno  was  brief.  The  doctor  was 
careful  not  to  mention  their  stopping-place.  For  her, 
the  friendship  was  ending  then  and  there. 

"It  is  probable  that  we  shall  run  across  each  other 
again,"  she  said  laconically.  "It  is  only  the  mountains 
that  never  meet." 

Her  young  companion  was  more  explicit,  mentioning 


FREYA  139 

the  hotel  on  the  shores  of  S.  Lucia  in  which  she  lodged. 

Standing  by  the  step  of  the  carriage,  he  saw  them 
take  their  departure,  just  as  he  had  seen  them  appear 
in  a  street  of  Pompeii.  The  doctor  was  lost  behind  a 
screen  of  glass,  talking  with  the  coachman  who  had  come 
to  meet  them.  Freya,  before  disappearing,  turned  to 
give  him  a  faint  smile  and  then  raised  her  gloved  hand 
with  a  stiff  forefinger,  threatening  him  just  as  though  he 
were  a  mischievous  and  bold  child. 

Finding  himself  alone  in  the  compartment  that  was 
carrying  toward  Naples  the  traces  and  perfumes  of 
the  absent  one,  Ulysses  felt  as  downcast  as  though  he 
were  returning  from  a  burial,  as  if  he  had  just  lost  one 
of  the  props  of  his  life. 

His  appearance  on  board  the  Mare  Nostrum  was  re- 
garded as  a  calamity.  He  was  capricious  and  intractable, 
complaining  of  Toni  and  the  other  two  officials  because 
they  were  not  hastening  repairs  on  the  vessel.  In  the 
same  breath  he  said  it  would  be  better  not  to  hurry  things 
too  much,  so  that  the  job  would  be  better  done.  Even 
Caragol  was  the  victim  of  his  bad  humor  which  flamed 
forth  in  the  form  of  cruel  sermons  against  those  addicted 
to  the  poison  of  alcohol. 

"When  men  need  to  be  cheered  up,  they  have  to  have 
something  better  than  wine.  That  which  brings  greater 
ecstasy  than  drink  ...  is  woman,  Uncle  Caragol.  Don't 
forget  this  counsel!" 

Through  mere  force  of  habit  the  cook  replied,  "That 
is  so,  my  captain.  .  .  ."  But  down  in  his  heart  he  was 
pitying  the  ignorance  of  those  men  who  concentrate  all 
their  happiness  on  the  whims  and  grimaces  of  this  most 
frivolous  of  toys. 

Two  days  afterwards  those  on  board  drew  a  long 
breath  when  they  saw  the  captain  taken  ashore.  The 
ship  was  moored  in  a  very  uncomfortable  place, — near 


140  MARE  NOSTRUM 

some  that  were  discharging  coal, — with  the  stern  shored 
up  so  that  the  screw  of  the  steamer  might  be  repaired. 
The  workmen  were  replacing  the  damaged  and  broken 
plates  with  ceaseless  hammering.  Since  they  would  un- 
doubtedly have  to  wait  nearly  a  month,  it  would  be  much 
more  convenient  for  the  owner  to  go  to  a  hotel;  so  he 
sent  his  baggage  to  the  Albergo  Partenope,  on  the  an- 
cient shore  of  S.  Lucia, — the  very  one  that  Freya  had 
mentioned. 

Upon  installing  himself  in  an  upper  room,  with  a  view 
of  the  blue  circle  of  the  gulf  framed  by  the  outlines  of 
the  balcony,  Ferragut's  first  move  was  to  change  a  bill 
for  five  liras  into  coppers,  preparatory  to  asking  vari- 
ous questions.  The  jaundiced  and  mustached  steward 
listened  to  him  attentively  with  the  complacency  of  a  go- 
between,  and  at  last  was  able  to  formulate  a  complete 
personality  with  all  its  data.  The  lady  for  whom  he  was 
inquiring  was  the  Signora  Talberg.  She  was  at  present 
away  on  an  excursion,  but  she  might  return  at  any  mo- 
ment. 

Ulysses  passed  an  entire  day  with  the  tranquillity  of 
one  who  awaits  at  a  sure  place,  gazing  at  the  gulf  from 
the  balcony.  Below  him  was  the  Castello  dell'  Ovo  con- 
nected with  the  land  by  a  bridge. 

The  bersaglieri  were  occupying  their  ancient  castle, 
work  of  the  viceroy,  Pedro  of  Toledo.  Many  turrets  of 
dark  rose  color  were  crowded  together  upon  this  narrow, 
egg-shaped  island,  where,  in  other  days,  the  pusillani- 
mous Spanish  garrison  was  locked  in  the  fortress  for  the 
purpose  of  aiming  bombards  and  culverins  at  the  Nea- 
politans when  they  no  longer  wished  to  pay  taxes  and 
imposts.  Its  walls  had  been  raised  upon  the  ruins  of 
another  castle  in  which  Frederick  II  had  guarded  his 
treasures,  and  whose  chapel  Giotto  had  painted.  And 
the  medieval  castle  of  which  only  the  memory  now  re- 


FREYA  141 

mained  had,  in  its  turn,  been  erected  upon  the  remnants 
of  the  Palace  of  Lucullus,  who  had  located  the  center  of 
his  celebrated  gardens  in  this  little  island,  then  called 
Megaris. 

The  cornets  of  the  bersaglieri  rejoiced  the  captain  like 
the  announcement  of  a  triumphal  entry.  "She's  going 
to  come!  She's  going  to  come  at  any  moment!  .  .  ." 
And  he  would  look  across  the  double  mountain  of  the 
island  of  Capri,  black  in  the  distance,  closing  the  gulf 
like  a  promontory,  and  the  coast  of  Sorrento  as  rectilinear 
as  a  wall.  "There  she  is.  .  .  ."  Then  he  would  lovingly 
follow  the  course  of  the  little  steamboats  plowing  across 
the  immense  blue  surface,  opening  a  triangle  of  foam. 
In  some  of  these  Freya  must  be  coming. 

The  first  day  was  golden  and  full  of  hope.  The  sun 
was  sparkling  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  gulf  was  foam- 
ing with  bubbles  of  light  under  an  atmosphere  so  calm 
that  not  the  slightest  zephyr  was  rippling  its  surface. 
The  smoke  plume  of  Vesuvius  was  upright  and  slender, 
expanding  upon  the  horizon  like  a  pine  tree  of  white 
vapor.  At  the  foot  of  the  balcony  the  strolling  musicians 
kept  succeeding  each  other  from  time  to  time,  singing 
voluptuous  barcarolles  and  love  serenades.  .  .  .  And — 
she  did  not  come ! 

The  second  day  was  silvery  and  desperate.  There  was 
fog  on  the  gulf;  the  sun  was  no  more  than  a  reddish 
disk  such  as  one  sees  in  the  northern  countries;  the 
mountains  were  clothed  with  lead ;  the  clouds  were  hiding 
the  cone  of  the  volcano;  the  sea  appeared  to  be  made 
of  tin,  and  a  chilly  wind  was  distending  sails,  skirts,  and 
overcoats,  making  the  people  scurry  along  the  promenade 
and  the  shore.  The  musicians  continued  their  singing  but 
with  melancholy  sighs  in  the  shelter  of  a  corner,  to  keep 
out  of  the  furious  blasts  from  the  sea.  "To  die.  ...  To 


142  MARE  NOSTRUM 

die  for  thee !"  a  baritone  voice  groaned  between  the  harps 
and  violins.  And — she  came! 

Upon  learning  from  the  waiter  that  the  signora  Tal- 
berg  was  in  her  room  on  the  floor  below,  Ulysses  thrilled 
with  restlessness.  What  would  she  say  upon  finding  him 
installed  in  her  hotel?  .  .  . 

The  luncheon  hour  was  at  hand,  and  he  impatiently 
awaited  the  usual  signals  before  going  down  to  the  din- 
ing room.  First  an  explosion  would  be  heard  behind  the 
alb  ergo  making  the  walls  and  roofs  tremble,  swelling  out 
into  the  immensity  of  the  gulf.  That  was  the  midday 
cannonade  from  the  high  castle  of  S.  Elmo.  Then  cor- 
nets from  the  Castello  dell'  Ovo  would  respond  with  their 
joyous  call  to  the  smoking  otta,  and  up  the  stairway  of 
the  hotel  would  come  the  beating  of  the  Chinese  gong, 
announcing  that  luncheon  was  served. 

Ulysses  went  down  to  take  his  place  at  table,  looking 
in  vain  at  the  other  guests  who  had  preceded  him.  Freya 
perhaps  was  going  to  come  in  with  the  delay  of  a  traveler 
who  has  just  arrived  and  has  been  occupied  in  freshening 
her  toilet. 

He  lunched  badly,  looking  continually  at  a  great  glass 
doorway  decorated  with  pictures  of  boats,  fishes,  and 
sea  gulls,  and  every  time  its  polychromatic  leaves  parted, 
his  food  seemed  to  stick  in  his  throat.  Finally  came  the 
end  of  the  lunch,  and  he  slowly  sipped  his  coffee.  She 
did  not  appear. 

On  returning  to  his  room,  he  sent  the  whiskered 
steward  in  search  of  news.  .  .  .  The  signora  had  not 
lunched  in  the  hotel;  the  signora  had  gone  out  while  he 
was  in  the  dining-room.  Surely  she  would  show  herself 
in  the  evening. 

At  dinner  time  he  had  the  same  unpleasant  experience, 
believing  that  Freya  was  going  to  appear  every  time  that 
an  unknown  hand  or  a  vague  silhouette  of  a  woman 


FREYA  143 

pushed  the  door  open  from  the  other  side  of  the  opaque 
glass. 

He  strolled  up  and  down  the  vestibule  a  long  time, 
chewing  rabidly  on  a  cigar,  and  finally  decided  to  accost 
the  porter,  an  astute  brunette  whose  blue  lapels  em- 
broidered with  keys  of  gold  were  peeping  over  the  edge 
of  his  writing  desk,  taking  in  everything,  informing  him- 
self of  everything,  while  he  appeared  to  be  asleep. 

The  approach  of  Ulysses  made  him  spring  up  as  though 
he  heard  the  rustling  of  paper  money.  His  information 
was  very  precise.  The  signora  Talberg  very  seldom  ate 
at  the  hotel.  She  had  some  friends  who  were  occupying 
a  furnished  flat  in  the  district  of  Chiaja,  with  whom  she 
usually  passed  almost  the  entire  day.  Sometimes  she  did 
not  even  return  to  sleep.  .  .  .  And  he  again  sat  down,  his 
hand  closing  tightly  upon  the  bill  which  his  imagination 
had  foreseen. 

After  a  bad  night  Ulysses  arose,  resolved  to  await  the 
widow  at  the  entrance  to  the  hotel.  He  took  his  break- 
fast at  a  little  table  in  the  vestibule,  read  the  newspaper, 
had  to  go  to  the  door  in  order  to  avoid  the  morning- 
cleaning,  pursued  by  the  dust  of  brooms  and  shaken 
rugs.  And  once  there,  he  pretended  to  take  great  inter- 
est in  the  wandering  musicians,  who  dedicated  their  love 
songs  and  serenades  to  him,  rolling  up  the  whites  of  their 
eyes  upon  presenting  their  hats  for  coins. 

Some  one  came  to  keep  him  company.  It  was  the 
porter  who  now  appeared  very  familiar  and  confidential, 
as  though  since  the  preceding  night  a  firm  friendship, 
based  upon  their  secret,  had  sprung  up  between  the  two. 

He  spoke  of  the  beauties  of  the  country,  counseling  the 
Spaniard  to  take  divers  excursions.  ...  A  smile,  an 
encouraging  word  from  Ferragut,  and  he  would  have 
immediately  proposed  other  recreations  whose  announce- 
ment appeared  to  be  fluttering  arotmd  his  lips.  But  the 


144  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sailor  repelled  all  such  amiability,  glowering  with  dis- 
pleasure. This  vulgar  fellow  was  going  to  spoil  with  his 
presence  the  longed-for  meeting.  Perhaps  he  was  hang- 
ing around  just  to  see  and  to  know.  .  .  .  And  taking  ad- 
vantage of  one  of  his  brief  absences,  Ulysses  went  off 
down  the  long  Via  Partenope,  following  the  parapet  that 
extends  along  the  coast,  pretending  to  be  interested  in 
everything  that  he  met,  but  without  losing  sight  of  the 
door  of  the  hotel. 

He  stopped  before  the  oystermen's  stands,  examining 
the  valves  of  pearly  shells  piled  up  on  the  shelves,  the 
baskets  of  oysters  from  Fusaro  and  the  enormous  conch- 
shells  in  whose  hollow  throats,  according  to  the  peddlers, 
the  distant  roll  of  the  sea  was  echoing  like  a  haunting 
memory.  One  by  one  he  looked  at  all  the  motor  launches, 
the  little  regatta  skiffs,  the  fishing  barks,  and  the  coast 
schooners  anchored  in  the  quiet  harbor  of  the  island 
dell'  Ovo.  He  stood  a  long  time  quietly  watching  the 
gentle  waves  that  were  combing  their  foam  on  the  rocks 
of  the  dikes  under  the  horizontal  fishing  rods  of  various 
fishermen. 

Suddenly  he  saw  Freya  following  the  avenue  beside 
the  houses.  She  recognized  him  at  once  and  this  dis- 
covery made  her  stop  near  a  street-opening,  hesitating 
whether  to  continue  on  or  to  flee  toward  the  interior  of 
Naples.  Then  she  came  over  to  the  seaside  pavement,  ap- 
proaching Ferragut  with  a  placid  smile,  greeting  him 
afar  off,  like  a  friend  whose  presence  is  only  to  be  ex- 
pected. 

Such  assurance  rather  disconcerted  the  captain.  They 
shook  hands  and  she  asked  him  calmly  what  he  was 
doing  there  looking  at  the  waves,  and  if  the  repairs  of 
his  boat  were  progressing  satisfactorily. 

"But   admit  that   my   presence   has   surprised  you!" 


FREYA 


145 


said  Ulysses,  rather  irritated  by  this  tranquillity.  "Con- 
fess that  you  were  not  expecting  to  find  me  here." 

Freya  repeated  her  smiles  with  an  expression  of  sweet 
compassion. 

"It  is  natural  that  I  should  find  you  here.  You  are 
in  your  district,  within  sight  of  a  hotel.  .  .  .  We  are 
neighbors." 

In  order  more  thoroughly  to  amuse  herself  with  the 
captain's  astonishment,  she  made  a  long  pause.  Then 
she  added: 

"I  saw  your  name  on  the  list  of  arrivals  yesterday,  on 
my  return  to  the  hotel.  I  always  look  them  over.  It 
pleases  me  to  know  who  my  neighbors  are." 

"And  for  that  reason  you  did  not  come  down  to  the 
dining-room?  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  asked  this  question  hoping  that  she  would  re- 
spond negatively.  She  could  not  answer  it  in  any  other 
way,  if  only  for  good  manners'  sake. 

"Yes,  for  that  reason,"  Freya  replied  simply.  "I 
guessed  that  you  were  waiting  to  meet  me  and  I  did  not 
wish  to  go  into  the  dining-room.  ...  I  give  you  fair 
warning  that  I  shall  always  do  the  same." 

Ulysses  uttered  an  "Ah!"  of  amazement.  ...  No 
woman  had  ever  spoken  to  him  with  such  frankness. 

"Neither  has  your  presence  here  surprised  me,"  she 
continued.  "I  was  expecting  it.  I  know  the  innocent 
wiles  of  you  men.  'Since  he  did  not  find  me  in  the  hotel, 
he  will  wait  for  me  to-day  in  the  street,'  I  said  to  myself, 
upon  arising  this  morning.  .  .  .  Before  coming  out,  I 
was  following  your  footsteps  from  the  window  of  my 
room.  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  looked  at  her  in  surprise  and  dismay.  What 
a  woman!  .  .  . 

"I  might  have  escaped  through  any  cross  street  while 
your  back  was  turned.  I  saw  you  b'efore  you  saw  me. 


346  MARE  NOSTRUM 

.  .  .  But  these  false  situations  stretching  along  indef- 
initely are  distasteful  to  me.  It  is  better  to  speak  the 
entire  truth  face  to  face.  .  .  .  And  therefore  I  have  come 
to  meet  you.  .  .  ." 

Instinct  made  him  turn  his  head  toward  the  hotel. 
The  porter  was  standing  at  the  entrance  looking  out 
over  the  sea,  but  with  his  eyes  undoubtedly  turned  toward 
them. 

"Let  us  go  on,"  said  Freya.  "Accompany  me  a  little 
ways.  We  shall  talk  together  and  then  you  can  leave 
me.  .  .  .  Perhaps  we  shall  separate  greater  friends  than 
ever." 

They  strolled  in  silence  all  the  length  of  the  Via  Par- 
tenope  until  they  reached  the  gardens  along  the  beach 
of  Chiaja,  losing  sight  of  the  hotel.  Ferragut  wished  to. 
renew  the  conversation,  but  could  not  begin  it.  He 
feared  to  appear  ridiculous.  This  woman  was  making 
him  timid. 

Looking  at  her  with  admiring  eyes,  he  noted  the 
great  changes  that  had  been  made  in  the  adornment  of  her 
person.  She  was  no  longer  clad  in  the  dark  tailor-made 
in  which  he  had  first  seen  her.  She  was  wearing  a  blue 
and  white  silk  gown  with  a  handsome  fur  over  her 
shoulders  and  a  cluster  of  purple  heron  feathers  on  top 
of  her  wide  hat. 

The  black  hand-bag  that  had  always  accompanied  her 
on  her  journeys  had  been  replaced  by  a  gold-meshed  one 
of  showy  richness, — Australian  gold  of  a  greenish  tone 
like  an  overlay  of  Florentine  bronze.  In  her  ears  were 
two  great,  thick  emeralds,  and  on  her  fingers  a  half 
dozen  diamonds  whose  facets  twinkled  in  the  sunlight. 
The  pearl  necklace  was  still  on  her  neck  peeping  out 
through  the  V-shaped  opening  of  her  gown.  It  was  the 
magnificent  toilet  of  a  rich  actress  who  puts  everything 
on  herself, — of  one  so  enamored  with  jewels  that  she 


FREYA  147 

is  not  able  to  live  without  their  contact,  adorning  herself 
with  them  the  minute  she  is  out  of  bed,  regardless  of  the 
hour  and  the  rules  of  good  taste. 

But  Ferragut  did  not  take  into  consideration  the  un- 
suitableness  of  all  this  luxury.  Everything  about  her 
appeared  to  him  admirable. 

Without  knowing  just  how,  he  began  to  talk.  He  was 
astonished  at  hearing  his  own  voice,  saying  always  the 
same  thing  in  different  words.  His  thoughts  were  inco- 
herent, but  they  were  all  clustered  around  an  incessantly 
repeated  statement, — his  love,  his  immense  love  for 
Freya. 

And  Freya  continued  marching  on  in  silence  with  a 
compassionate  expression  in  her  eyes  and  in  the  corners 
of  her  mouth.  It  pleased  her  pride  as  a  woman  to  con- 
template this  strong  man  stuttering  in  childish  confusion. 
At  the  same  time  she  grew  impatient  at  the  monotony 
of  his  words. 

"Don't  say  any  more,  Captain,"  she  finally  interrupted. 
"I  can  guess  all  that  you  are  going  to  say,  and  I've  heard 
many  times  what  you  have  said, — You  do  not  sleep — 
you  do  not  eat — you  do  not  live  because  of  me.  Your 
existence  is  impossible  if  I  do  not  love  you.  A  little 
more  conversation  and  you  will  threaten  me  with  shoot- 
ing yourself,  if  I  am  not  yours.  .  .  .  Same  old  song! 
They  all  say  the  same  thing.  There  are  no  creatures 
with  less  originality  than  you  men  when  you  wish  some- 
thing. .  .  ." 

They  were  in  one  of  the  avenues  of  the  promenade. 
Through  the  palm  trees  and  glossy  magnolias  the  lumi- 
nous gulf  could  be  seen  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other 
the  handsome  edifices  of  the  beach  of  Chiaja.  Some 
ragged  urchins  kept  running  around  them  and  following 
them,  until  they  took  refuge  in  an  ornamental  little  white 
temple  at  the  end  of  the  avenue. 


148  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Very  well,  then,  enamored  sea-wolf/'  continued 
Freya;  "you  need  not  sleep,  you  need  not  eat,  you  may 
kill  yourself  if  the  fancy  strikes  you ;  but  I  am  not  able 
to  love  you;  I  shall  never  love  you.  You  may  give  up 
all  hope;  life  is  not  mere  diversion  and  I  have  other 
more  serious  occupations  that  absorb  all  my  time." 

In  spite  of  the  playful  smile  with  which  she  accom- 
panied these  words,  Ferragut  surmised  a  very  firm  will. 

"Then,"  he  said  in  despair,  "it  will  all  be  useless  ?  .  .  » 
Even  though  I  make  the  greatest  sacrifices?  .  .  .  Even 
though  I  give  proofs  of  love  greater  than  you  have  ever 
known?  .  .  ." 

"All  useless,"  she  replied  roundly,  without  a  sign  of  a 
smile. 

They  paused  before  the  ornamental  little  temple-shaped 
building,  with  its  dome  supported  by  white  columns  and 
a  railing  around  it.  The  bust  of  Virgil  adorned  the  cen- 
ter,— an  enormous  head  of  somewhat  feminine  beauty. 

The  poet  had  died  in  Naples  in  "Sweet  Parthenope," 
on  his  return  from  Greece  and  his  body,  turned  to  dust, 
was  perhaps  mingled  with  the  soil  of  this  garden.  The 
Neapolitan  people  of  the  Middle  Ages  had  attributed  to 
him  all  kinds  of  wonderful  things,  even  transforming  the 
poet  into  a  powerful  magician.  The  wizard  Virgil  in  one 
night  had  constructed  the  Castello  dell'  Ovo,  placing  it 
with  his  own  hands  upon  a  great  egg  (Ovo)  that  was 
floating  in  the  sea.  He  also  had  opened  with  his  magic 
blasts  the  tunnel  of  Posilipo  near  which  are  a  vineyard 
and  a  tomb  visited  for  centuries  as  the  last  resting  place 
of  the  poet.  Little  scamps,  playing  around  the  railing, 
used  to  hurl  papers  and  stones  inside  the  temple.  The 
white  head  of  the  powerful  sorcerer  attracted  them  and 
at  the  same  time  filled  them  with  admiration  and  fear. 

"Thus  far  and  no  further,"  ordered  Freya.  "You  will 
continue  on  your  way.  I  am  going  to  the  high  part  of 


FREYA  149 

Chiaja.  .  .  .  But  before  separating  as  good  friends,  you 
are  going  to  give  me  your  word  not  to  follow  me,  not 
to  importune  me  with  your  amorous  attentions,  not  to 
mix  yourself  in  my  life." 

Ulysses  did  not  reply,  hanging  his  head  in  genuine 
dismay.  To  his  disillusion  was  added  the  sting  of 
wounded  pride.  He  who  had  imagined  such  very  dif- 
ferent things  when  they  should  see  each  other  again  to- 
gether, alone !  .  .  . 

Freya  pitied  his  sadness. 

"Don't  be  a  baby!  .  .  .  This  will  soon  pass.  Think 
of  your  business  affairs,  and  of  your  family  waiting 
for  you  over  there  in  Spain.  .  .  .  Besides,  the  world  is 
full  of  women;  I'm  not  the  only  one." 

But  Ferragut  interrupted  her.  "Yes,  she  was  the  only 
one!  .  .  .  The  only  one!  .  .  ."  And  he  said  it  with  a 
conviction  that  awakened  another  one  of  her  compassion- 
ate smiles. 

This  man's  tenacity  was  beginning  to  irritate  her. 

"Captain,  I  know  your  type  very  well.  You  are  an 
egoist,  like  all  other  men.  Your  boat  is  tied  up  in  the 
harbor  because  of  an  accident;  you've  got  to  remain 
ashore  a  month ;  you  meet  on  one  of  your  trips  a  woman 
who  is  idiot  enough  to  admit  that  she  remembers  meet- 
ing you  at  other  times,  and  you  say  to  yourself,  'Magnifi- 
cent occasion  to  while  away  agreeably  a  tedious  period 
of  waiting!  .  .  /  If  I  should  yield  to  your  desire, 
within  a  few  weeks,  as  soon  as  your  boat  was  ready,  the 
hero  of  my  love,  the  knight  of  my  dreams,  would  betake 
himself  to  the  sea,  saying  as  a  parting  salute:  'Adieu, 
simpleton !' " 

Ulysses  protested  with  energy.  No :  he  wished  that  his 
boat  might  never  be  repaired.  He  was  computing  with 
agony  the  days  that  remained.  If  it  were  necessary,  he 
would  abandon  it,  remaining  forever  1n  Naples. 


150  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"And  what  have  I  to  do  in  Naples?"  interrupted 
Freya.  "I  am  a  mere  bird  of  passage  here,  just  as  you 
are.  We  knew  each  other  on  the  seas  of  another  hemi- 
sphere, and  we  have  just  happened  to  run  across  each 
other  here  in  Italy.  Next  time,  if  we  ever  meet  again, 
it  will  be  in  Japan  or  Canada  or  the  Cape.  ...  Go  on 
your  way,  you  enamored  old  shark,  and  let  me  go  mine. 
Imagine  to  yourself  that  we  are  two  boats  that  have 
met  when  becalmed,  have  signaled  each  other,  have  ex- 
changed greetings,  have  wished  each  other  good  luck, 
and  afterwards  have  continued  on  our  way,  perhaps 
never  to  see  each  other  again." 

Ferragut  shook  his  head  negatively.  Such  a  thing 
could  not  be,  he  could  not  resign  himself  to  losing  sight 
of  her  forever. 

"These  men!"  she  continued,  each  time  a  little  more 
irritated.  "You  all  imagine  that  things  must  be  arranged 
entirely  according  to  your  caprices.  'Because  I  desire 
thee,  thou  must  be  mine.  .  .  .'  And  what  if  I  don't  want 
to?  .  .  .  And  if  I  don't  feel  any  necessity  of  being 
loved?  ...  If  I  wish  only  to  live  in  liberty,  with  no 
other  love  than  that  which  I  feel  for  myself  ?  .  .  ." 

She  considered  it  a  great  misfortune  to  be  a  woman. 
She  always  envied  men  for  their  independence.  They 
could  hold  themselves  aloof,  abstaining  from  the  passions 
that  waste  life,  without  anybody's  coming  to  importune 
them  in  their  retreat.  They  were  at  liberty  to  go  wher- 
ever they  wanted  to,  to  travel  the  wide  world  over, 
without  leaving  behind  their  footsteps  a  wake  of  solici- 
tors. 

"You  appear  to  me,  Captain,  a  very  charming  man. 
The  other  day  I  was  delighted  to  meet  you;  it  was  an 
apparition  from  the  past;  I  saw  in  you  the  joy  of  my 
youth  that  is  beginning  to  fade  away,  and  the  melancholy 
of  certain  recollections.  .  .  .  And  nevertheless,  I  am 


FREYA  151 

going  to  end  by  hating  you.  Do  you  hear  me,  you  tedious 
old  Argonaut?  ...  I  shall  loathe  you  because  you  will 
not  be  a  mere  friend;  because  you  know  only  how  to 
talk  everlastingly  about  the  same  thing;  because  you  are 
a  person  out  of  a  novel,  a  Latin,  very  interesting,  per- 
haps, to  other  women, — but  insufferable  to  me." 

Her  face  contracted  with  a  gesture  of  scorn  and  pity. 
"Ah,  those  Latins!  .  .  ." 

"They're  all  the  same, — Spaniards,  Italians,  French- 
men. .  .  .  They  were  born  for  the  same  thing.  They 
hardly  meet  an  attractive  woman  but  they  believe  that 
they  are  evading  their  obligations  if  they  do  not  beg  for 
her  love  and  what  comes  afterward.  .  .  .  Cannot  a  man 
and  woman  simply  be  friends?  Couldn't  you  be  just  a 
good  comrade  and  treat  me  as  a  companion  ?" 

Ferragut  protested  energetically.  No;  no,  he  couldn't. 
He  loved  her  and,  after  being  repelled  with  such  cruelty, 
his  love  would  simply  go  on  increasing.  He  was  sure  of 
that. 

A  nervous  tremor  made  Freya's  voice  sharp  and  cut- 
ting, and  her  eyes  took  on  a  dangerous  gleam.  She 
looked  at  her  companion  as  though  he  were  an  enemy 
whose  death  she  longed  for. 

"Very  well,  then,  if  you  must  know  it.  I  abominate 
all  men ;  I  abominate  them,  because  I  know  them  so  well. 
I  would  like  the  death  of  all  of  them,  of  every  one !  .  .  . 
The  evil  that  they  have  wrought  in  my  lif  e !  .  .  .  I  would 
like  to  be  immensely  beautiful,  the  handsomest  woman  on 
earth,  and  to  possess  the  intellect  of  all  the  sages  con- 
centrated in  my  brain,  to  be  rich  and  to  be  a  queen,  in 
order  that  all  the  men  of  the  world,  crazy  with  desire, 
would  come  to  prostrate  themselves  before  me.  .  .  .  And 
I  would  lift  up  my  feet  with  their  iron  heels,  and  I 
would  go  trampling  over  them,  crushing  their  heads  .  .  . 
so  .  .  and  so  .  .  and  so!  .  .  ." 


152  MARE  NOSTRUM 

She  struck  the  sands  of  the  garden  with  the  soles  of 
her  little  shoes.  An  hysterical  sneer  distorted  her  mouth. 

"Perhaps  I  might  make  an  exception  of  you.  .  .  .  You 
who,  with  all  your  braggart  arrogance,  are,  after  all,  out- 
right and  simple-hearted.  I  believe  you  capable  of  assur- 
ing a  woman  of  all  kinds  of  love-lies  .  .  .  believing  them 
yourself  most  of  all.  But  the  others!  .  .  .  Ay,  the 
others!  .  .  .  How  I  hate  them!  .  .  ." 

She  looked  over  toward  the  palace  of  the  Aquarium, 
glistening  white  between  the  colonnade  of  trees. 

"I  would  like  to  be,"  she  continued  pensively,  "one  of 
those  animals  of  the  sea  that  can  cut  with  their 
claws,  that  have  arms  like  scissors,  saws,  pincers  .  .  . 
that  devour  their  own  kind,  and  absorb  everything  around 
them." 

Then  she  looked  at  the  branch  of  a  tree  from  which 
were  hanging  several  silver  threads,  sustaining  insects 
with  active  tentacles. 

"I  would  like  to  be  a  spider,  an  enormous  spider,  that 
all  men  might  be  drawn  to  my  web  as  irresistibly  as  flies. 
With  what  satisfaction  would  I  crunch  them  between 
my  claws !  How  I  would  fasten  my  mouth  against  their 
hearts !  .  .  .  And  I  would  suck  them.  ...  I  would  suck 
them  until  there  wasn't  a  drop  of  blood  left,  tossing  away 
then  their  empty  carcasses!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
a  crazy  woman.  His  disquietude,  his  surprise  and  ques- 
tioning eyes  gradually  restored  Freya's  serenity. 

She  passed  one  hand  across  her  forehead,  as  though 
awakening  from  a  nightmare  and  wishing  to  banish  re- 
membrance with  this  gesture.  Her  glance  became 
calmer. 

"Good-by,  Ferragut;  do  not  make  me  talk  any  more. 
You  will  soon  doubt  my  reason.  .  .  .  You  are  doing  so 
already.  We  shall  be  friends,  just  friends  and  nothing 


FREYA  153 

more.  It  is  useless  to  think  of  anything  else.  ...  Do 
not  follow  me.  .  .  .  We  shall  see  each  other.  ...  I  shall 
hunt  you  up.  .  .  .  Good-by !  .  .  .  Good-by !" 

And  although  Ferragut  felt  tempted  to  follow  her, 
he  remained  motionless,  seeing  her  hurry  rapidly  away, 
as  though  fleeing  from  the  words  that  she  had  just  let 
fall  before  the  little  temple  of  the  poet. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES 

IN  spite  of  her  promise,  Freya  made  no  effort  to  meet 
the  sailor.  "We  shall  see  each  other.  ...  I  shall  hunt 
you  up."  But  it  was  Ferragut  who  did  the  hunting,  sta- 
tioning himself  around  the  hotel. 

"How  crazy  I  was  the  other  morning!  ...  I  wonder 
what  you  could  have  thought  of  me!"  she  said  the  first 
time  that  she  spoke  to  him  again. 

Not  every  day  did  Ulysses  have  the  pleasure  of  a  con- 
versation which  invariably  developed  from  the  Via  Par- 
tenope  to  Virgil's  monument.  The  most  of  the  mornings 
he  used  to  wait  in  vain  opposite  the  oyster  stands,  listen- 
ing to  the  musicians  who  were  bombarding  the  closed 
windows  of  the  hotel  with  their  sentimental  romances  and 
mandolins.  Freya  would  not  appear. 

His  impatience  usually  dragged  Ulysses  back  to  the 
hotel  in  order  to  beg  information  of  the  porter.  Ani- 
mated by  the  hope  of  a  new  bill,  the  flunkey  would  go  to 
the  telephone  and  inquire  of  the  servants  on  the  upper 
floor.  And  then  with  a  sad  and  obsequious  smile,  as 
though  lamenting  his  own  words :  "The  signora  is  not  in. 
The  signora  has  passed  the  night  outside  of  the  albergo." 
And  Ferragut  would  go  away  furious. 

Sometimes  he  would  go  to  see  how  the  repairs  were 
getting  on  in  his  boat, — an  excellent  pretext  for  venting 
his  wrath  on  somebody.  On  other  mornings  he  would  go 
to  the  garden  of  the  beach  of  Chiaja, — to  the  very  same 
places  through  which  he  had  strolled  with  Freya.  He 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  155 

was  always  looking  for  her  to  appear  from  one  moment 
to  another.  Everything  'round  about  suggested  some  re- 
minder of  her.  Trees  and  benches,  pavements  and  elec- 
tric lights  knew  her  perfectly  because  of  having  formed 
a  part  of  her  regular  walk. 

Becoming  convinced  that  he  was  waiting  in  vain,  a 
last  hope  made  him  glance  toward  the  white  building  of 
the  Aquarium.  Freya  had  frequently  mentioned  it.  She 
was  accustomed  to  amuse  herself,  oftentimes  passing  en- 
tire hours  there,  contemplating  the  life  of  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  sea.  And  Ferragut  blinked  involuntarily 
as  he  passed  rapidly  from  the  garden  boiling  under  the 
sun  into  the  shadow  of  the  damp  galleries  with  no  other 
illumination  than  that  of  the  daylight  which  penetrated 
to  the  interior  of  the  Aquarium, — a  light  that,  seen 
through  the  water  and  the  glass,  took  on  a  mysterious 
tone,  the  green  and  diffused  tint  of  the  subsea  depths. 

This  visit  enabled  him  to  kill  time  more  placidly. 
There  came  to  his  mind  old  readings  confirmed  now  by 
direct  vision.  He  was  not  the  kind  of  sailor  that  sails 
along  regardless  of  what  exists  under  his  keel.  He 
wanted  to  know  the  mysteries  of  the  immense  blue  palace 
over  whose  roof  he  was  usually  navigating,  devoting  him- 
self to  the  study  of  oceanography,  the  most  recent  of 
sciences. 

Upon  taking  his  first  steps  in  the  Aquarium,  he  imme- 
diately pictured  the  marine  depths  which  exploration  had 
divided  and  charted  so  unequally.  Near  the  shores,  in 
the  zone  called  "the  littoral"  where  the  rivers  empty,  the 
materials  of  nourishment  were  accumulated  by  the  im- 
pulse of  the  tides  and  currents,  and  there  flourished  sub- 
aquatic  vegetation.  This  was  the  zone  of  the  great  fish 
and  reached  down  to  within  two  hundred  fathoms  of  the 
bottom,— a  depth  to  which  the  sun's  rays  never  penetrate. 


156  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Beyond  that  there  was  no  light;  plant  life  disappeared 
and  with  it  the  herbivorous  animals. 

The  submarine  grade,  a  gentle  one  down  to  this 
point,  now  becomes  very  steep,  descending  rapidly  to 
the  oceanic  abysses, — that  immense  mass  of  water  (al- 
most the  entire  ocean),  without  light,  without  waves, 
without  tides,  without  currents,  without  oscillations  of 
temperature,  which  is  called  the  "abyssal"  zone. 

In  the  littoral,  the  waters,  healthfully  agitated,  vary 
in  saltiness  according  to  the  proximity  of  the  rivers.  The 
rocks  and  deeps  are  covered  with  a  vegetation  which  is 
green  near  the  surface,  becoming  darker  and  darker,  even 
turning  to  a  dark  red  and  brassy  yellow  as  it  gets  further 
from  the  light.  In  this  oceanic  paradise  of  nutritive  and 
luminous  waters  charged  with  bacteria  and  microscopic 
nourishment,  life  is  developed  in  exuberance.  In  spite 
of  the  continual  traps  of  the  fishermen,  the  marine  herds 
keep  themselves  intact  because  of  their  infinite  powers 
of  reproduction. 

The  fauna  of  the  abyssal  depths  where  the  lack  of 
light  makes  all  vegetation  impossible,  is  largely  carnivor- 
ous, the  weak  inhabitants  usually  devouring  the  residuum 
and  dead  animals  that  come  down  from  the  surface.  The 
strong  ones,  in  their  turn,  nourish  themselves  on  the  con- 
centrated sustenance  of  the  little  cannibals. 

The  bottom  of  the  ocean,  a  monotonous  desert  of  mud 
and  sand,  the  accumulated  sediment  of  hundreds  of  cen- 
turies, has  occasional  oases  of  strange  vegetation.  These 
grove-like  growths  spring  up  like  spots  of  light  just  where 
the  meeting  of  the  surface  currents  rain  down  a  manna 
of  diminutive  dead  bodies.  The  twisted  limestone 
plants,  hard  as  stone,  are  really  not  plants  at  all,  but 
animals.  Their  leaves  are  simply  inert  and  treacherous 
tentacles  which  contract  very  suddenly,  and  their  flowers, 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  157 

avid  mouths,  which  bend  over  their  prey,  and  suck  it  in 
through  their  gluttonous  openings. 

A  fantastic  light  streaks  this  world  of  darkness  with 
multicolored  shafts,  animal  light  produced  by  living  or- 
ganisms. In  the  lowest  abysses  sightless  creatures  are 
very  scarce,  contrary  to  the  common  opinion,  which  im- 
agines that  almost  all  of  them  lack  eyes  because  of  their 
distance  from  the  sun.  The  filaments  of  the  carnivorous 
trees  are  garlands  of  lamps ;  the  eyes  of  the  hunting  ani- 
mals, electric  globes ;  the  insignificant  bacteria,  light-pro- 
ducing  little  glands  all  of  which  open  or  close  with  phos- 
phorescent switches  according  to  the  necessity  of  the 
moment, — sometimes  in  order  to  persecute  and  devour, 
and  at  others  in  order  to  keep  themselves  hidden  in  the 
shadows. 

The  animal-plants,  motionless  as  stars,  surround  their 
ferocious  mouths  with  a  circle  of  flashing  lights,  and 
immediately  their  diminutive  prey  feel  themselves  as  ir^ 
resistibly  drawn  toward  them  as  do  the  moths  that  fly 
toward  the  lamp,  and  the  birds  of  the  sea  that  beat 
against  the  lighthouse. 

None  of  the  lights  of  the  earth  can  compare  with 
those  of  this  abyssal  world.  All  artificial  fires  pale  before 
the  varieties  of  its  organic  brilliance. 

The  living  branches  of  polyps,  the  eyes  of  the  animals, 
even  the  mud  sown  with  brilliant  points,  emit  phosphoric 
shafts  like  sparks  whose  splendors  incessantly  vanish  and 
reappear.  And  these  lights  pass  through  many  grada- 
tions of  colors : — violet,  purple,  orange,  blue,  and  espe- 
cially green.  On  perceiving  a  victim  nearby,  the  gigantic 
cuttle-fishes  become  illuminated  like  livid  suns,  moving 
their  arms  with  death-dealing  strokes. 

All  the  abyssal  beings  have  their  organs  of  sight  enor- 
mously developed  in  order  to  catch  even  the  weakest 
rays  of  light.  Many  have  enormous,  protruding  eyes. 


158  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Others  have  them  detached  from  the  body  at  the  end  of 
two  cylindrical  tentacles  like  telescopes. 

Those  that  are  blind  and  do  not  throw  out  any  ra- 
diance are  compensated  for  this  inferiority  by  the  de- 
velopment of  the  tactile  organs.  Their  antennae  and 
swimming  organs  are  immeasurably  prolonged  in  the 
darkness.  The  filaments  of  their  body,  long  hairs  rich 
in  nerve  terminals,  can  distinguish  instantaneously  the 
appetizing  prey,  or  the  enemy  lying  in  wait. 

The  abyssal  deeps  have  two  floors  or  roofs.  In  the 
highest,  is  the  so-called  neritic  zone, — the  oceanic  sur- 
face, diaphanous  and  luminous,  far  from  any  coast.  Next 
is  seen  the  pelagic  zone,  much  deeper,  in  which  reside 
the  fishes  of  incessant  motion,  capable  of  living  without 
reposing  on  the  bottom. 

The  corpses  of  the  neritic  animals  and  of  those  that 
swim  between  the  two  waters  are  the  direct  or  indirect 
sustenance  of  the  abyssal  fauna.  These  beings  with  weak 
dental  equipment  and  sluggish  speed,  badly  armed  for 
the  conquest  of  living  prey,  nourish  themselves  with  the 
dropping  of  this  rain  of  alimentary  material.  The  great 
swimmers,  supplied  with  formidable  mandibles  and  im- 
mense and  elastic  stomachs,  prefer  the  fortunes  of  war, 
the  pursuit  of  living  prey,  and  devour, — as  the  carnivor- 
ous devour  the  herbivorous  on  land, — all  the  little  feeders 
on  debris  and  plancton.  This  word  of  recent  scientific 
invention  presented  to  Captain  Ferragut's  mind  the  most 
humble  and  interesting  of  the  oceanic  inhabitants.  The 
plancton  is  the  life  that  floats  in  loose  clusters  or  forming 
cloud-like  groups  across  the  neritic  surface,  even  de- 
scending to  the  abyssal  depths. 

Wherever  the  plancton  goes,  there  is  living  animation, 
grouping  itself  in  closely  packed  colonies.  The  purest 
and  most  translucent  salt  water  shows  under  certain 
luminous  rays  a  multitude  of  little  bodies  as  restless  as 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  159 

the  dust  motes  that  dance  in  shafts  of  sunlight.  These 
transparent  beings  mingled  with  microscopic  algae  and 
embryonic  mucosities  are  the  plancton.  In  its  dense  mass, 
scarcely  visible  to  the  human  eye,  float  the  siphonoforas, 
garlands  of  entities  united  by  a  transparent  thread  as 
fragile,  delicate  and  luminous  as  Bohemian  crystal.  Other 
equally  subtle  organisms  have  the  form  of  little  glass 
torpedoes.  The  sum  of  all  the  albuminous  materials 
floating  on  the  sea  are  condensed  in  these  nutrient  clouds 
to  which  are  added  the  secretions  of  living  animals,  the 
remnants  of  cadavers,  the  bodies  brought  down  by  the 
rivers,  and  the  nourishing  fragments  from  the  meadows 
of  algae. 

When  the  plancton,  either  by  chance  or  following  some 
mysterious  attraction,  accumulates  on  some  determined 
point  of  the  shore,  the  waters  boil  with  fishes  of  an  as- 
tonishing fertility.  The  seaside  towns  increase  in  num- 
ber, the  sea  is  filled  with  sails,  the  tables  are  more  opu- 
lent, industries  are  established,  factories  are  opened  and 
money  circulates  along  the  coast,  attracted  thither  from 
the  interior  by  the  commerce  in  fresh  and  dried  fish. 

If  the  plancton  capriciously  withdraws  itself,  floating 
toward  another  shore,  the  marine  herds  emigrate  behind 
these  living  meadows,  and  the  blue  plain  remains  as 
empty  as  a  desert  accursed.  The  fleets  of  fishing  boats 
are  placed  high  and  dry  on  the  beach,  the  shops  are 
closed,  the  stewpot  is  no  longer  steaming,  the  horses  of 
the  gendarmerie  charge  against  protesting  and  famine^ 
stricken  crowds,  the  Opposition  howls  in  the  Chambers, 
and  the  newspapers  make  the  Government  responsible 
for  everything. 

This  animal  and  vegetable  dust  nourishes  the  most 
numerous  species  which,  in  their  turn,  serve  as  pas- 
ture for  the  great  swimmers  armed  with  teeth. 

The  whales,  most  bulky  of  all  the  oceanic  inhabitants, 


160  MARE  NOSTRUM 

close  this  destructive  cycle,  since  they  devour  each  other 
in  order  to  live.  The  Pacific  giant,  without  teeth,  sup- 
plies his  organism  with  plancton  alone,  absorbing  it  by 
the  ton;  that  imperceptible  and  crystalline  manna  nour- 
ishes his  body  (looking  like  an  overturned  belfry),  and 
makes  purple,  fatty  rivers  of  warm  blood  circulate  under 
its  oily  skin. 

The  transparency  of  the  beings  in  the  plancton  recalled 
to  Ferragut's  memory  the  marvelous  colorings  of  the 
inhabitants  of  the  sea,  adjusted  exactly  to  their  needs 
of  preservation.  The  species  that  live  on  the  surface 
have,  as  a  general  rule,  a  blue  back  and  silver  belly.  In 
this  way  it  is  possible  for  them  to  escape  the  sight  of 
their  enemies ;  seen  from  the  shadows  of  the  depths,  they 
are  confounded  with  the  white  and  luminous  color  of  the 
surface.  The  sardines  that  swim  in  shoals  are  able 
to  pass  unnoticed,  thanks  to  their  backs  blue  as  the  water, 
thus  escaping  the  fish  and  the  birds  which  are  hunting 
them. 

Living  in  the  abysses  where  the  light  never  pene- 
trates, the  pelagic  animals  are  not  obliged  to  be  trans- 
parent or  blue  like  the  neritic  beings  on  the  surface. 
Some  are  opaque  and  colorless,  others,  bronzed  and 
black;  most  of  them  are  clad  in  somber  hues,  whose 
splendor  is  the  despair  of  the  artist's  brush,  incapable 
of  imitating  them.  A  magnificent  red  seems  to  be  the 
base  of  this  color  scheme,  fading  gradually  to  pale  pink, 
violet,  amber,  even  losing  itself  in  the  milky  iris  of  the 
pearls  and  in  the  opalescence  of  the  mother-of-pearl  of 
the  mollusks.  The  eyes  of  certain  fish  placed  at  the  end 
of  jaw  bones  separated  from  the  body,  sparkle  like 
diamonds  in  the  ends  of  a  double  pin.  The  protruding 
glands,  the  warts,  the  curving  backs,  take  on  the  colorings 
of  jewelry. 

But  the  precious  stones  of  earth  are  dead  minerals 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  161 

that  need  rays  of  light  in  order  to  emit  the  slightest 
flash.  The  animated  gems  of  the  ocean — fishes  and 
corals — sparkle  with  their  own  colors  that  are  a  reflex  of 
their  vitality.  Their  green,  their  rose  color,  their  intense 
yellow,  their  metallic  iridescence,  all  their  liquid  tints  are 
eternally  glazed  by  a  moist  varnish  which  cannot  exist  in 
the  atmospheric  world. 

Some  of  these  beings  are  capable  of  a  marvelous  power 
of  mimicry  that  makes  them  identify  themselves  with 
inanimate  objects,  or  in  a  few  moments  run  through 
every  gamut  of  color.  Some  of  great  nervous  activity, 
make  themselves  absolutely  immovable  and  contract,  fill- 
ing themselves  with  wrinkles,  taking  on  the  dark  tone 
of  the  rocks.  Others  in  moments  of  irritation  or  amor- 
ous fever,  cover  themselves  with  streaks  of  light  and 
tremulous  spots,  different  colored  clouds  passing  over 
their  epidermis  with  every  thrill.  The  cuttlefish  and 
ink  fish,  upon  perceiving  that  they  are  pursued,  enwrap 
themselves  in  a  cloud  of  invisibility,  just  as  did  the  en- 
chanters of  old  in  the  books  of  chivalry,  darkening  the 
water  with  the  ink  stored  in  their  glands. 

Ferragut  continued  to  pass  slowly  along  the  Aquarium 
between  the  two  rows  of  vertical  tanks, — stone  cases 
with  thick  glass  that  permitted  full  view  of  the  interior. 
The  clear  and  shining  walls  that  received  the  fire  of  the 
sun  through  their  upper  part,  spread  a  green  reflection 
over  the  shadows  of  the  corridors.  As  they  made  the 
rounds,  the  visitors  took  on  a  livid  paleness,  as  though 
they  were  marching  through  a  submarine  defile. 

The  tranquil  water  within  the  tanks  was  scarcely  vis- 
ible. Behind  the  thick  glass  there  appeared  to  exist  only 
a  marvelous  atmosphere,  an  air  of  dreamland  in  which 
drifted  up  and  down  various  floating  beings  of  many 
colors.  The  bubbles  of  their  respiration  was  the  only 
thing  that  announced  the  presence  oT  the  liquid.  In  the 


162  MARE  NOSTRUM 

upper  part  of  these  aquatic  cages,  the  luminous  atmos- 
phere vibrated  under  a  continual  spray  of  transparent 
dust, — the  sea  water  with  air  injected  into  it  that  was 
renewing  the  conditions  of  existence  for  these  guests  of 
the  Aquarium. 

Seeing  these  revivifying  streams,  the  captain  admired 
the  nourishing  force  of  the  blue  water  upon  which  he 
had  passed  almost  all  his  life. 

Earth  lost  its  pride  when  compared  with  the  aquatic 
immensity.  In  the  ocean  had  appeared  the  first  mani- 
festations of  life,  continuing  then  its  evolutionary  cycle 
over  the  mountains  which  had  also  come  up  from  its 
depths.  If  the  earth  was  the  mother  of  man,  the  sea 
was  his  grandmother. 

The  number  of  terrestrial  animals  is  most  insignificant 
compared  with  the  maritime  ones.  Upon  the  earth's 
surface  (much  smaller  than  the  ocean)  the  beings  occupy 
only  the  surface  of  the  soil,  and  an  atmospheric  can- 
opy of  a  certain  number  of  meters.  The  birds  and  in- 
sects seldom  go  beyond  this  in  their  flights.  In  the  sea, 
the  animals  are  dispersed  over  all  its  levels,  through 
many  miles  of  depth  multiplied  by  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  longitudinal  leagues.  Infinite  quantities  of 
creatures,  whose  number  it  is  impossible  to  calculate, 
swim  incessantly  in  all  the  strata  of  its  waters.  Land  is 
a  surface,  a  plane ;  the  sea  is  a  volume. 

The  immense  aquatic  mass,  three  times  more  salty 
than  at  the  beginning  of  the  planet,  because  of  a  millen- 
narian  evaporation  that  has  diminished  the  liquid  without 
absorbing  its  components,  retains  mixed  with  its  chlo- 
rides, copper,  nickel,  iron,  zinc,  lead,  and  even  gold,  from 
the  metallic  veins  that  planetary  upheaval  deposits  upon 
the  oceanic  bottom;  compared  with  this  mass,  the  veins 
of  mountains  with  their  golden  sands  deposited  by  the 
rivers  are  but  insignificant  tentacles. 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  163 

Silver  also  is  dissolved  in  its  waters.  Ferragut  knew 
by  certain  calculations  that  with  the  silver  floating  in 
the  ocean  could  be  erected  pyramids  more  enormous  than 
those  in  Egypt. 

The  men  who  once  had  thought  of  exploiting  these 
mineral  riches  had  given  up  the  visionary  idea  because 
the  minerals  were  too  diluted  and  it  would  be  impossible 
to  make  use  of  them.  The  oceanic  beings  know  better 
how  to  recognize  their  presence,  letting  them  filter 
through  their  bodies  for  the  renovation  and  coloration  of 
their  organs.  The  copper  accumulates  in  their  blood ;  the 
gold  and  silver  are  discovered  in  the  texture  of  the  ani- 
mal-plants; the  phosphorus  is  absorbed  by  the  sponges; 
the  lead  and  the  zinc  by  species  of  algae. 

Every  oceanic  creature  is  able  to  extract  from  the 
water  the  residuum  from  certain  metals  dissolved  into 
particles  so  incalculably  tiny  that  no  chemical  process 
could  ever  capture  them.  The  carbonates  of  lime  de- 
posited by  the  rivers  or  dragged  from  the  coast  serve 
innumerable  species  for  the  construction  of  their  cover- 
ings, skeletons,  and  spiral  shells.  The  corals,  filtering 
the  water  across  their  flabby  and  mucous  bodies,  solidify 
their  hard  skeletons  so  that  they  may  finally  be  converted 
into  habitable  islands. 

The  beings  of  disconcerting  diversity  that  were  float- 
ing, diving,  or  wiggling  around  Ferragut  were  no  more 
than  oceanic  water.  The  fish  were  water  made  into* 
flesh;  the  slimy,  mucilaginous  animals  were  water  in  a 
gelatinous  state;  the  crustaceans  and  the  polypi  were 
water  turned  to  stone. 

In  one  of  the  tanks  he  saw  a  landscape  which  appeared 
like  that  of  another  planet,  grandiose  yet  at  the  same 
time  reduced,  like  a  woods  seen  in  a  diorama.  It  was  a 
palm  grove,  surging  up  between  the  rocks,  but  the  rocks 
were  only  pebbles,  and  the  palm  trees, — annelides  of 


164  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  sea, — were  simply  worms  holding  themselves  in  up- 
right immovability. 

They  kept  their  ringed  bodies  within  a  leathern  tube 
that  formed  their  protective  case,  and  from  this  rec- 
tilinear, marble-colored  trunk  sent  forth,  like  a  spout 
of  branches,  the  constantly  moving  tentacles  which  served 
them  as  organs  for  breathing  and  eating. 

Endowed  with  rare  sensitiveness,  it  was  enough  for 
a  cloud  to  pass  before  the  sun  to  make  them  shrink 
quickly  within  these  tubes,  deprived  of  their  showy  capi- 
tals, like  beheaded  palm  trees.  Then,  slowly  and  pru- 
dently the  animated  pincers  would  come  protruding  again 
through  the  opening  of  their  cylindrical  scabbards,  float- 
ing in  the  water  with  anxious  hope.  All  these  trees  and 
flower-animals  developed  a  mechanical  voracity  when- 
ever a  microscopic  victim  fell  under  the  power  of  their 
tentacles ;  then  the  soft  clusters  of  branches  would  con- 
tract, close,  drawing  in  their  prey,  and  the  worm,  with- 
drawing into  the  lowest  part  of  the  slender  tower  se- 
creted by  himself,  would  digest  his  conquest. 

The  other  tanks  then  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
sailor. 

Slipping  over  the  stones,  introducing  themselves  into 
their  caverns,  drowsing,  half  buried  in  the  sand, — all 
the  varied  and  tumultuous  species  of  crustaceans  were 
moving  their  cutting  and  tentacular  grinders  and  making 
their  Japanese  armor  gleam :  some  of  their  frames  were 
red — almost  black — as  though  guarding  the  dry  blood 
of  a  remote  combat;  others  were  of  a  scarlet  freshness 
as  though  reflecting  the  first  fires  of  the  flaming  dawn. 

The  largest  of  the  lobsters  (the  homard,  the  sover- 
eign of  the  tables  of  the  rich)  was  resting  upon  the 
scissors  of  its  front  claws,  as  powerful  as  an  arm,  or  a 
double  battle-axe.  The  spiny  lobster  was  leaping  with 
agility  over  the  peaks,  by  means  of  the  hooks  on  its 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  165 

claws,  its  weapons  of  war  and  nutrition.  Its  nearest 
relative,  the  cricket  of  the  sea,  a  dull  and  heavy  animal, 
was  sulking  in  the  corners  covered  with  mire  and  with 
sea  weed,  in  an  immovability  that  made  it  easily  con- 
founded with  the  stones.  Around  these  giants,  like  a 
democracy  accustomed  to  endure  from  time  to  time  the 
attack  of  the  strong,  crayfish  and  shrimps  were  swim- 
ming in  shoals.  Their  movements  were  free  and  grace- 
ful, and  their  sensitiveness  so  acute  that  the  slightest 
agitation  made  them  start,  taking  tremendous  springs. 

Ulysses  kept  thinking  of  the  slavery  that  Nature  had 
imposed  upon  these  animals,  giving  them  their  beautiful, 
Defensive  envelopment. 

They  were  born  armored  and  their  development 
obliged  them  repeatedly  to  change  their  form  of  arms. 
They  sloughed  their  skins  like  reptiles,  but  on  account 
of  their  cylindrical  shape  were  able  to  perform  this 
operation  with  the  facility  of  a  leg  that  abandons  its 
stocking.  When  it  begins  to  crack,  the  crustaceans  have 
to  withdraw  from  out  their  cuirass  the  multiple  mechan- 
ism of  their  members  and  appendages, — claws,  antennae 
and  the  great  pincers, — a  slow  and  dangerous  operation 
in  which  many  perish,  lacerated  by  their  own  efforts. 
Then,  naked  and  disarmed,  they  have  to  wait  until  a 
new  skin  forms  that  in  time  is  also  converted  into  a 
coat  of  mail, — all  this  in  the  midst  of  a  hostile  environ- 
ment, surrounded  with  greedy  beasts,  large  and  small, 
attracted  by  their  rich  flesh, — and  with  no  other  defense 
than  that  of  keeping  themselves  in  hiding. 

Among  the  swarm  of  small  crustaceans  moving  around 
on  the  sandy  bottom,  hunting,  eating,  or  fighting  with  a 
ferocious  entanglement  of  claws,  the  onlookers  always 
search  for  a  bizarre  and  extravagant  little  creature,  the 
paguro,  nicknamed  "Bernard,  the  Hermit."  It  is  a  snail 


166  MARE  NOSTRUM 

that  advances  upright  as  a  tower,  upon  crab  claws,  yet 
having  as  a  crown  the  long  hair  of  a  sea-anemone. 

This  comical  apparition  is  composed  of  three  distinct 
animals  one  upon  the  other — or,  rather,  of  two  living 
beings  carrying  a  bier  between  them.  The  paguro  crab 
is  born  with  the  lower  part  of  his  case  unprotected, — a 
most  excellent  tid-bit,  tender  and  savory  for  hungry 
fishes.  The  necessity  for  defending  himself  makes  him 
seek  a  snail  shell  in  order  to  protect  the  weak  part  of 
his  organism.  If  he  encounters  an  empty  dwelling  of 
this  class,  he  appropriates  it.  If  not,  he  eats  the  inhabi- 
tant, introducing  his  posterior  armed  with  two  hooked 
claws  into  its  mother-of-pearl  refuge. 

But  these  defensive  precautions  are  not  sufficient  for 
the  weak  paguro.  In  order  to  live  he  needs  rather  to  put 
himself  on  the  offensive,  to  inspire  respect  in  devouring 
monsters,  especially  in  the  octopi  that  are  seeking  as 
prey  his  trunk  and  hairy  claws,  exposed  to  locomotion 
outside  his  tower. 

In  course  of  time  a  sea-anemone  comes  along  and 
attaches  itself  to  the  calcareous  peak,  the  number  often 
amounting  to  five  or  six,  although  there  is  no  bodily  rela- 
tion between  the  paguro  and  the  organisms  on  top.  They 
are  simply  partners  with  a  reciprocal  interest.  The  ani- 
mal-plants sting  like  nettles;  all  the  monsters  without  a 
shell  flee  from  the  poison  of  their  tingling  organs,  and 
the  fragments  of  their  hair  burns  like  pins  of  fire.  In 
this  manner  the  humble  paguro,  carrying  upon  his  back 
his  tower  crowned  with  formidable  batteries,  inspires 
terror  in  the  gigantic  beasts  of  the  deep.  The  anemones 
on  their  part  are  grateful  to  him  for  being  thus  able  to 
pass  incessantly  from  one  side  to  the  other,  coming  in 
contact  with  every  class  of  animals.  In  this  way,  they 
can  eat  with  greater  facility  than  their  sisters  fixed  on 
the  rocks;  for  they  do  not  have  to  wait,  as  the  others 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  167 

must,  until  food  drifts  casually  to  their  tentacles.  Be- 
sides this,  there  is  always  floating  on  top  some  of  the 
remains  of  the  booty  that  the  crafty  crab  in  his  wander- 
ing impunity  has  gathered  below. 

Ferragut,  on  passing  from  one  tank  to  the  other,  men- 
tally established  the  gradation  of  the  fauna  from  the 
primitive  protoplast  to  the  perfect  organism. 

The  sponges  of  the  Mediterranean  swam  as  soon  as 
they  were  born,  when  they  were  like  pin-heads,  with 
vibratory  movements.  Then  they  remained  immov- 
able, the  water  filtering  through  the  cracks  and  crannies 
of  their  texture,  protecting  their  delicate  flesh  with  a 
bristling  of  spikes, — sharp  limestone  needles  with  which 
they  pierced  the  passing  fishes  and  rendered  them  im- 
movable, availing  themselves  of  the  nourishment  of 
their  putrefying  remains. 

The  nettles  of  the  sea  spread  out  their  stinging  threads 
by  the  thousands,  discharging  a  venom  that  stupefies 
the  victim  and  makes  him  fall  into  their  corolla.  With 
unlimited  voracity,  and  fastened  to  the  rocks,  they  over- 
power fish  much  larger  than  they,  and  at  the  first  hint 
of  danger  shrink  together  in  such  a  way  that  it  is  very 
difficult  to  see  them.  The  sea-plumes  lie  flabby  and  dark 
as  dead  animals,  until  absorbing  water,  they  suddenly 
rear  themselves  up,  transparent  and  full  of  leaves.  Thus 
they  go  from  one  side  to  the  other,  with  the  lightness  of 
a  feather,  or,  burrowing  in  the  sand,  send  forth  a  phos- 
phoric glow.  The  belles  of  the  sea,  the  elegant  Medusae, 
open  out  the  floating  circle  of  their  fragile  beauty.  They 
are  transparent  fungi,  open  umbrellas  of  glass  that  ad- 
vance by  means  of  their  contractions.  From  the  inner 
center  of  their  dome  hangs  a  tube  equally  transparent 
and  gelatinous,— the  mouth  of  the  animal.  Long  fila- 
ments depend  from  the  edges  of  their  circular  forms, 


i68  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sensitive  tentacles  that  at  the  same  time  maintain  their 
floating  equilibrium. 

These  fragile  beings,  that  appear  to  belong  to  an 
enchanted  fauna,  white  as  rock  crystal  with  soft  bor- 
ders of  rose  color  or  violet,  sting  like  nettles  and  defend 
themselves  by  -their  fiery  touch.  Some  subtle  and  color- 
less parasols  were  living  here  in  the  tank  under  the  pro- 
tection of  a  second  enclosure  of  crystal,  and  their  mucous 
mistiness  scarcely  showed  itself  within  this  bell-shaped 
glass  except  as  a  pale  line  of  blue  vapor. 

Below  these  transparent  and  ethereal  forms  that  burn 
whatever  they  touch,  venturing  to  capture  prey  much 
larger  than  themselves,  were  grouped  as  in  gardens  the 
so-called  "flower  of  blood,"  the  red  coral,  and  especially 
the  star-fish,  forming  with  their  corolla  an  orange-col- 
ored ring. 

The  captain  had  seen  these  stony  vegetations,  like  sub- 
merged groves,  in  the  depths  of  the  Dead  Sea  and  also  in 
the  southern  seas.  He  had  sailed  over  them  under  the 
illusion  that  through  the  bluish  depths  of  the  ocean  were 
circulating  broad  rivers  of  blood. 

The  oseznos  (bear-cubs)  and  the  star-fish  were  slowly 
waving  the  forms  that  had  given  rise  to  their  names, 
secreting  poisons  in  order  to  paralyze  their  victims,  con- 
tracting themselves  until  they  formed  a  ball  of  lances 
that  grasped  their  prey  in  a  deadly  embrace  or  cut  it 
with  the  bony  knives  of  their  radiating  body.  The  iris 
of  the  sea  balanced  themselves  on  end,  moving  their 
members  as  though  they  were  petals. 

Upon  the  fine  sandy  depths  or  attached  to  the  rocks, 
the  mollusks  lived  in  the  protection  of  their  shells. 

The  necessity  of  giving  themselves  up  to  sleep  with 
relative  security,  without  fear  of  the  general  rapacity 
which  is  the  oceanic  law,  is  a  matter  of  concern  to  all 
of  these  marine  beings,  making  them  constructive  and 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  169 

inventive.  The  crustaceans  live  within  their  shells  or 
take  advantage  of  ready-made  refuges  of  limestone,  ex- 
pelling their  former  owners;  the  animal-plants  exhale 
toxins ;  the  planctonic  beings,  transparent  and  gelatinous, 
burn  like  a  crystal  exposed  to  fire;  some  organisms  ap- 
parently weak  and  flabby,  have  in  their  tails  the  force 
of  a  carpenter's  bit,  perforating  the  rock  sufficiently 
to  create  a  cavern  of  refuge  in  its  hard  interior.  .  .  . 
And  the  timid  mollusks,  trembling  and  succulent  pulp, 
have  fabricated  for  their  protection  the  strong  shields 
of  their  valves, — two  concave  walls  that  on  opening 
form  their  door,  and  on  closing,  their  house. 

A  bit  of  flesh  protrudes  outside  these  shells,  like  a 
white  tongue.  In  some  it  takes  the  form  of  a  sole,  and 
serves  as  a  foot,  the  mollusk  marching  with  his  dwell- 
ing upon  the  back  of  this  unique  support.  In  others  it  is 
a  swimmer,  and  the  shell,  opening  and  shutting  its  valves 
like  a  propelling  mouth,  ascends  in  a  straight  line  to  the 
surface,  falling  afterwards  with  the  two  shields  closed. 

These  herbivorous  fresh-water  animals  live  by  drink- 
ing in  the  light, — feeling  the  necessity  of  the  surface 
waters  or  the  shallow  depths  with  their  limpid  glades — 
and  this  light,  spreading  over  the  white  interior  of  their 
dwelling,  decorates  it  with  all  the  fleeting  colors  of  the 
iris,  giving  to  the  limestone  the  mysterious  shimmer  of 
mother-of-pearl. 

Ulysses  admired  the  odd  forms  of  their  winding 
passageways.  They  were  like  the  palaces  of  the  Orient, 
dark  and  forbidding  on  the  outside,  glistening  within 
like  a  lake  of  pearl.  Some  received  their  terrestrial 
names  because  of  the  special  form  of  their  shell— the 
rabbit,  the  helmet,  triton's  horn,  the  cask,  the  Mediter- 
ranean parasol. 

They  were  grazing  with  bucolic  tranquillity  on  the 
maritime  pasture  lands,  contemplated  "from  afar  by  the 


170  MARE  NOSTRUM 

mussels,  the  oysters,  and  other  bi-valves,  attached  to  the 
rocks  by  a  hard  and  horny  hank  of  silk  that  enwrapped 
their  enclosures.  Some  of  these  shells,  called  hams, — 
clams  of  great  size,  with  valves  in  the  form  of  a  club, — 
had  fixed  themselves  upright  in  the  mire,  giving  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  submerged  Celtic  camp,  with  a  succession 
of  obelisks  swallowed  up  by  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

The  one  called  the  date-shell  can,  assisted  by  its 
liquid  acid,  pierce  the  hardest  stone  with  its  cylindrical 
gimlet.  The  columns  of  Hellenic  temples,  submerged 
in  the  Gulf  of  Naples  and  brought  to  light  by  an  earth- 
quake, are  bored  from  one  end  to  the  other  by  this 
diminutive  perforator. 

Cries  of  surprise  and  nervous  laughter  suddenly 
reached  Ferragut.  They  came  from  that  part  of  the 
Aquarium  where  the  fish  tanks  were.  In  the  corridor 
was  a  little  trough  of  water  and  at  the  bottom  a  kind  of 
rag,  flabby  and  gray,  with  black  rings  on  the  back.  This 
animal  always  attracted  the  immediate  curiosity  of  the 
visitors.  Everybody  would  ask  for  it. 

Groups  of  countrymen,  city  families  preceded  by  their 
offspring,  pairs  of  soldiers,  all  might  be  seen  consulting 
before  it  and  experimenting,  advancing  their  hands  over 
the  trough  with  a  certain  hesitation.  Finally  they  would 
touch  the  living  rag  at  the  bottom, — the  gelatinous  flesh 
of  the  fish-torpedo, — receiving  a  series  of  electric  shocks 
which  quickly  made  them  loosen  their  prey,  laughing  and 
raising  the  other  hand  to  their  jerking  arms. 

Ulysses  on  reaching  the  fish  tanks  had  the  sensation 
of  a  traveler  who,  after  having  lived  among  inferior 
humanity,  encounters  beings  that  are  almost  of  his  own 
race. 

There  was  the  oceanic  aristocracy,  the  fish  free  as 
the  sea,  swift,  undulating  and  slippery,  like  the  waves. 
They  all  had  accompanied  him  for  many  years,  appear- 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  171 

ing  in  the  transparencies  opened  by  the  prow  of  his 
vessel. 

They  were  vigorous  and  therefore  had  no  neck, — the 
most  fragile  and  delicate  portion  of  terrestrial  organ- 
ism,— making  them  more  like  the  bull,  the  elephant  and 
all  the  battering  animals.  They  needed  to  be  light, 
and  in  order  to  be  so  had  dispensed  with  the  rigid  and 
hard  shell  of  the  crustacean  that  prevents  motion,  pre- 
ferring the  coat  of  mail  covered  with  scales,  which  ex- 
pands and  contracts,  yields  to  the  blow  but  is  not  in- 
jured. They  wished  to  be  free,  and  their  body,  like 
that  of  the  ancient  wrestlers,  was  covered  with  a  slippery 
oil,  the  oceanic  mucus  that  becomes  volatilized  at  the 
slightest  pressure. 

The  freest  animals  on  earth  cannot  be  compared 
with  them.  The  birds  need  to  perch  and  to  rest  during 
their  sleep,  but  the  fish  continue  floating  around  and 
moving  from  place  to  place  while  asleep.  The  entire 
world  belongs  to  them.  Wherever  there  is  a  mass  of 
water, — ocean,  river  or  lake,  in  whatever  altitude  or 
latitude,  a  mountain  peak  lost  in  the  clouds,  a  valley 
boiling  like  a  whirlpool,  a  sparkling  and  tropical  sea 
with  a  forest  of  colors  in  its  bosoms,  or  a  polar  sea 
encrusted  with  ice  and  people,  with  sea-lions  and  white 
bears, — there  the  fish  always  appears. 

The  public  of  the  Aquarium,  seeing  the  flat  heads  of 
the  swimming  animals  near  the  glass,  would  scream 
and  wave  their  arms  as  though  they  could  be  seen  by 
the  fishy  eyes  of  stupid  fixity.  Then  they  would  experi- 
ence a  certain  dismay  upon  perceiving  that  the  fish 
continued  their  course  with  indifference. 

Ferragut  smiled  before  this  deception.  The  crystal 
that  separated  the  water  from  the  atmosphere  had  the 
density  of  millions  of  leagues, — an  insuperable  obstacle 


172  MARE  NOSTRUM 

interposed  between  two  worlds  that  do  not  know  each 
other. 

The  sailor  recalled  the  imperfect  vision  of  the  ocean 
inhabitants.  In  spite  of  their  bulging  and  movable  eyes 
that  enable  them  to  see  before  and  behind  them,  their 
visual  power  extends  but  a  short  distance.  The  splen- 
dors with  which  Nature  clothes  the  butterfly  cannot  be 
appreciated  by  them.  Absolutely  color-blind,  they  can 
appreciate  only  the  difference  between  light  and  dark- 
ness. 

Complete  silence  accompanies  their  incomplete  vision. 
All  the  aquatic  animals  are  deaf,  or  rather  they  com- 
pletely lack  the  organs  of  hearing,  because  they  are 
unnecessary  to  them.  Atmospheric  agitations,  thunder- 
bolts and  hurricanes  do  not  penetrate  the  water.  Only 
the  cracking  shell  of  certain  crabs  and  the  dolorous 
moaning  near  the  surface  of  certain  fishes,  called  snor- 
ers,  alter  this  silence. 

Since  the  ocean  lacks  acoustic  waves,  their  inhabitants 
have  never  needed  to  form  the  organs  that  transform 
them  into  sound.  They  feel  impetuously  the  primal  ne- 
cessities of  animal  life, — hunger  and  love.  They  suffer 
madly  the  cruelty  of  sickness  and  pain;  among  them- 
selves they  fight  to  the  death  for  a  meal  or  a  mate. 
But  all  in  absolute  silence,  without  the  howl  of  triumph 
or  agony  with  which  terrestrial  animals  accompany  the 
same  manifestations  of  their  existence. 

Their  principal  sense  is  that  of  smell,  as  is  that  of  sight 
in  the  bird.  In  the  twilight  world  of  the  ocean,  streaked 
with  phosphorescent  and  deceptive  splendors,  the  big 
fish  trust  only  to  their  sense  of  smell  and  at  times  to 
that  of  touch. 

Sometimes  buried  in  the  mud,  they  will  ascend  hun- 
dreds of  yards,  attracted  by  the  odor  of  the  fish  that 
are  swimming  on  the  surface.  This  prodigious  faculty* 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  173 

renders  useless,  in  part,  the  colors  in  which  the  timid 
species  clothe  themselves  in  order  to  confound  themselves 
with  lights  or  shadows.  The  greatest  flesh-eaters  see 
badly,  but  they  scrape  the  bottom  with  a  divining  touch 
and  scent  their  prey  at  astonishing  distances. 

Only  the  Mediterranean  fishes,  especially  those  of 
the  Gulf  of  Naples,  were  living  in  the  tanks  of  this 
Aquarium.  Some  were  lacking, — the  dolphin,  of  nervous 
movement,  and  the  tunny,  so  impetuous  in  its  career. 
The  captain  smiled  upon  thinking  of  the  mischievous 
pranks  of  these  ungovernable  guests  whose  presence  had 
been  declined. 

The  voracious  shark  (cabeza  de  olio),  the  persecuting 
wolf  of  the  Mediterranean  herds,  was  not  here  either. 
In  his  place  were  swimming  other  animals  of  the  same 
species,  whitish  and  long,  with  great  fins,  with  eyes  al- 
ways open  for  lack  of  movable  eyelids,  and  a  mouth  split 
like  a  half -moon,  under  the  head  at  the  beginning  of  the 
stomach. 

Ferragut  sought  on  the  bottom  of  the  tanks  the  fishes 
of  the  deep, — flattened  animals  that  pass  the  greater  part 
of  their  time  sunk  in  the  sand  under  a  coverlet  of  algae. 
The  dark  uranoscopo,  with  its  eyes  almost  united  on 
the  peak  of  its  enormous  head  and  its  body  in  the  form 
of  a  club,  leaves  visible  only  a  long  thread  coming  from 
its  lower  jaw,  waving  it  in  all  directions  in  order  to  at- 
tract its  prey.  Believing  it  a  worm,  the  victims  usually 
chase  the  moving  bait  until  pounced  upon  by  the  teeth 
of  the  hunter  who  then  springs  from  his  bed,  floats 
around  for  a  few  moments,  and  falls  heavily  to  the  bot- 
tom, opening  a  new  pit  with  his  pectoral,  shovel-shaped 
swimming  bladders. 

The  toad  fish,  the  most  hideous  animal  of  the  Med- 
iterranean, goes  hunting  in  the  same  way.  Three-fourths 
of  his  flattened  body  is  made  up  of  he'ad,  mostly  mouth, 


174  MARE  NOSTRUM 

armed  with  hooks  and  curved  knives.  Guided  by  his 
yellowish  eyes  fixed  on  top,  he  waves  his  pointed  little 
beard,  cut  like  leaves,  and  a  pair  of  dorsal  appendages 
like  feathers.  This  false  bait  attracts  the  unwary  ones 
and  soon  the  cavernous  mandibles  close  upon  them. 

The  plane  fishes  swim  quickly  over  these  monsters  of 
the  mire,  that  are  always  horizontally  flat  resting  upon 
their  bellies,  whilst  the  flatness  of  the  soles  and  others 
of  the  same  species  is  vertical.  The  two  sides  of  the 
bodies  of  the  soles,  compressed  laterally,  have  different 
colorings.  In  this  way,  when  lying  down,  they  are  able 
to  merge  themselves  at  the  same  time  with  the  light  of 
the  surface  and  the  shadow  of  the  bottom,  thus  getting 
rid  of  their  persecutors. 

All  the  infinite  varieties  of  the  Mediterranean  fauna 
were  moving  in  the  other  tanks. 

There  passed  by  the  greenish  plates  of  glass  the  gilt- 
heads,  the  cackerels,  and  the  sea  roaches,  clad  in  vivid 
silver  with  bands  of  gold  on  their  sides.  There  also 
flashed  past  the  purple  of  the  salmonoids,  the  brilliant 
majesty  of  the  gold  fish,  the  bluish  belly  of  the  sea 
bream,  the  striped  back  of  the  sheep's  head,  the  trumpet- 
mouthed  marine  sun-fish,  the  immovable  sneer  of  the 
so-called  "joker,"  the  dorsal  pinnacle  of  the  peacock- 
fish  which  appears  made  of  feathers,  the  restless  and 
deeply  bifurcated  tail  of  the  horse  mackerel,  the  flut- 
tering of  the  mullet  with  its  triple  wings,  the  grotesque 
rotundity  of  the  boar-fish  and  the  pig-fish,  the  dark 
smoothness  of  the  sting-ray,  floating  like  a  fringe,  the 
long  snout  of  the  woodcock-fish,  the  slenderness  of  the 
haddock,  agile  and  swift  as  a  torpedo,  the  red  gurnard 
all  thorns,  the  angel  of  the  sea  with  its  fleshy  wings, 
the  gudgeon,  bristling  with  swimming  angularities,  the 
notary,  red  and  white,  with  black  bands  similar  to  the 
flourishes  on  signatures,  the  modest  esmarrido,  the  little 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  175 

sand  fish,  the  superb  turbot  almost  round  with  fan  tail 
and  a  swimming  fringe  spotted  with  circles,  and  the 
gloomy  conger-eel  whose  skin  is  as  bluish  black  as  that 
of  the  ravens. 

Hidden  between  two  rocks  like  the  hunting  crus- 
taceans was  the  rascaza, — the  scorpion  of  the  Valencian 
sea  that  Ferragut  had  known  in  his  childhood,  the  ani- 
mal beloved  by  his  uncle,  the  Triton,  because  of  its  sub- 
stantial flesh  which  thickened  the  seamen's  soup,  the 
precious  component  sought  by  Uncle  Caragol  for  the 
broth  of  his  succulent  rice  dishes.  The  enormous  head 
had  a  pair  of  eyes  entirely  red.  Its  great  swimming 
bladders  stung  venomously.  The  heavy  body  with  its 
dark  bands  and  stripes  was  covered  with  singular  ap- 
pendages in  the  form  of  leaves  and  could  easily  take 
the  color  of  the  deep  where,  in  the  semi-obscurity,  it 
looked  like  a  stone  covered  with  plants.  With  this 
mimicry  it  was  accustomed  to  escape  its  enemies  and 
could  better  detect  its  prey. 

A  gloomy  creature,  in  Ferragut's  opinion  like  a  beadle 
of  the  Holy  Office,  was  parading  through  the  upper  part 
of  the  tanks,  passing  from  glass  to  glass,  reflected  like  a 
double  animal  when  it  approached  the  surface.  It  was 
the  ray-fish  with  a  flat  head,  ferocious  eyes,  and  thong- 
like  tail,  moving  the  black  mantle  of  its  fleshy  wings 
with  a  deliberation  that  rippled  the  edges. 

From  the  sandy  bottom  was  struggling  forth  a  convex 
shield  that,  when  floating,  showed  its  lower  face  smooth 
and  yellow.  The  four  wrinkled  paws  and  the  serpent- 
like  head  of  the  turtle  were  emerging  from  its  cuirass 
of  tortoise-shell.  The  little  sea  horses,  slender  and  grace- 
ful as  chess-pieces,  were  rising  and  descending  in  the 
bluish  environment,  wiggling  their  tails  and  twisting 
themselves  in  the  form  of  interrogation  points. 

When   the   captain   approached  the  end  of  the   four 


176  MARE  NOSTRUM 

galleries  of  the  Aquarium  without  Having  seen  more 
than  the  maritime  animals  behind  the  glistening  glasses 
and  a  few  uninteresting  people  in  the  greenish  semi-light, 
he  felt  all  the  discouragement  of  a  day  lost. 

"She  won't  come  now !  .  .  ." 

In  passing  from  this  damp,  cellar-like  atmosphere  to 
the  sunlit  garden,  the  report  of  the  midday  gun  struck 
him  like  an  atmospheric  blow.  Lunch  hour!  .  .  .  And 
surely  Freya  was  not  going  to  lunch  in  the  hotel ! 

During  the  afternoon  his  footsteps  strayed  instinctively 
toward  the  hill  streets  of  the  district  of  Chiaja.  All 
old  buildings  of  manorial  aspect  invariably  attracted  his 
attention.  These  were  great,  reddish  houses  of  the 
time  of  the  Spanish  viceroys,  or  palaces  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  III.  Their  broad  staircases  were  adorned  with 
polychrome  busts  brought  from  the  first  excavations  in 
Herculaneum  and  Pompeii. 

Ulysses  had  faint  hopes  of  running  across  the  widow 
while  passing  in  front  of  one  of  these  mansions,  now 
rented  in  floors  and  displaying  little  metal  door-plates 
indicative  of  office  and  warehouse.  In  one  of  these  un- 
doubtedly must  be  living  the  family  that  was  so  friendly 
to  Freya. 

Then,  noticing  the  whiteness  of  the  showy  construc- 
tions rising  up  around  the  old  districts,  he  became  dubi- 
ous. The  doctor  would  dwell  only  in  a  modern  and 
hygienic  edifice.  But  not  daring  to  .ask  questions,  he 
passed  on,  fearing  to  be  seen  from  a  window. 

Finally  he  gave  it  up.  Chiaja  had  many  streets  and 
he  was  wandering  aimlessly,  since  the  concierge  of  the 
hotel  had  not  been  able  to  give  him  any  precise  direc- 
tions. The  signora  Talberg  was  evidently  bent  on  out- 
witting all  his  finesse,  trying  to  keep  from  him  the  ad- 
dress of  her  friends. 

The  following  morning  the  captain  took  up  his  usual 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  177 

watch  in  the  promenade  near  the  white  Virgil.  It  was 
all  in  vain.  After  ten  o'clock  he  again  wandered  into 
the  Aquarium,  animated  by  a  vague  hope. 

"Perhaps  she  may  come  to-day.  .  .  ." 

With  the  superstition  of  the  enamored  and  all  those 
who  wait,  he  kept  hunting  certain  places  preferred  by 
the  widow,  believing  that  in  this  way  he  would  attract 
her  from  her  distant  preoccupation,  obliging  her  to  come 
to  him. 

The  tanks  of  the  molluscas  had  always  been  espe- 
cially interesting  to  her.  He  recalled  that  Freya  had 
several  times  spoken  to  him  of  this  section. 

Among  its  aquatic  cases  she  always  preferred  the  one 
marked  number  fifteen,  the  exclusive  dominion  of  the 
polypi  (cuttlefish).  A  vague  presentiment  warned  him 
that  something  very  important  in  his  life  was  going  to 
be  unrolled  in  that  particular  spot.  Whenever  Freya 
visited  the  Aquarium,  it  was  to  see  these  repulsive  and 
gluttonous  animals  eat.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  await  her  before  this  cavern  of  horrors. 

And  while  she  was  making  her  way  thither,  the  cap- 
tain had  to  amuse  himself  like  any  landlubber,  con- 
templating the  ferocious  chase  and  laborious  digestion  of 
these  monsters. 

He  had  seen  them  much  larger  in  the  deep-sea  fishing 
grounds;  but  by  curtailing  his  imaginative  powers  he 
could  pretend  that  the  blue  sheet  of  the  tank  was  the 
entire  mass  of  the  ocean — the  rough  bits  of  stone  on 
the  bottom  its  submarine  mountains,  and  by  contracting 
his  own  personality,  he  could  reduce  himself  to  the  same 
scale  as  the  little  victims  that  were  falling  under  the 
devouring  tentacles.  In  this  manner  he  could  fancy  of 
gigantic  dimensions  these  cuttlefish  of  the  Aquarium, 
just  as  the  monstrous  oceanic  octopi  must  be  that, 
thousands  of  yards  down,  were  illuminating  the  gloom 


178  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  the  waters  with  the  greenish  star  of  their  phosphor- 
escent nuclei. 

From  prehistoric  times  the  men  of  the  sea  had  known 
this  great,  ropy  beast  of  the  abysses.  The  geographers 
of  antiquity  used  to  speak  of  it,  giving  the  measurement 
of  its  terrible  arms. 

Pliny  used  to  recount  the  destruction  accomplished 
by  a  gigantic  octopus  in  the  vivarium  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. When  some  sailors  succeeded  in  killing  it  they 
carried  it  to  the  epicure,  Lucullus, — the  head  as  big  as 
a  barrel,  and  some  of  its  tentacles  so  huge  that  one  per- 
son could  hardly  reach  around  them.  The  chroniclers 
of  the  Middle  Ages  had  also  spoken  of  the  gigantic  cut- 
tlefish that  on  more  than  one  occasion  had,  with  its 
serpentine  arms,  snatched  men  from  the  decks  of  the 
ships. 

The  Scandinavian  navigators,  who  had  never  en- 
countered it  in  their  fjords,  nicknamed  it  the  kraken, 
exaggerating  its  proportions  and  even  converting  it 
into  a  fabulous  being.  If  it  came  to  the  surface,  they 
confounded  it  with  an  island;  if  it  remained  between 
the  two  waters,  the  captains,  on  making  their  soundings, 
became  confused  in  their  calculations,  finding  the  depth 
less  than  that  marked  on  their  charts.  In  such  cases 
they  had  to  escape  before  the  kraken  should  awake  and 
sink  the  vessel  as  though  it  were  a  fragile  skiff  among 
its  whirlpools  of  foam. 

During  many  long  years  Science  had  laughed  at  the 
gigantic  polypus  and  at  the  sea  serpent,  another  pre- 
historic animal  many  times  encountered,  supposing  them 
to  be  merely  the  inventions  of  an  imaginative  sailor, 
stories  of  the  forecastle  made  up  to  pass  the  night-watch. 
Wise  men  can  only  believe  what  they  can  study  directly 
and  then  catalogue  in  their  museums.  .  .  . 

And  Ferragut  laughed  in  his  turn  at  poor  Science, 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  179 

ignorant  and  defenseless  before  the  mysterious  immen- 
sity of  the  ocean,  and  having  scarcely  achieved  the  meas- 
urement of  its  great  depth.  The  apparatus  of  the  diver 
could  go  down  but  a  few  meters ;  their  only  instrument 
of  exploration  was  the  metal  diving-bell,  less  important 
than  a  spider-web  thread  that  might  try  to  explore  the 
earth  by  floating  across  its  atmosphere. 

The  great  cuttlefish  living  in  the  tremendous  depths 
do  not  deign  to  come  to  the  surface  in  order  to  become 
acquainted  with  mankind.  Sickness  and  oceanic  war  are 
the  only  agents  that  from  time  to  time  announce  their 
existence  in  a  casual  way,  as  they  float  over  the  waves 
with  members  relaxed,  snatched  at  by  the  iron  jaws 
of  the  flesh-eating  fish.  The  great  danger  for  them  is 
that  a  chance  current  might  place  this  plunder  of  the 
immense  marine  desert  before  the  prow  of  a  slow-going 
sailboat. 

A  corvette  of  the  French  navy  once  encountered  near 
the  Canary  Isles  a  complete  specimen  of  one  of  these 
monsters  floating  upon  the  sea,  sick  or  wounded.  The 
officials  sketched  its  form  and  noted  its  phosphorescence 
and  changes  of  color,  but  after  a  two-hour  struggle  with 
its  indomitable  force  and  its  slippery  mucosity  con- 
stantly escaping  the  pressure  of  blows  and  harpoons,  they 
had  to  let  it  slip  back  into  the  ocean. 

It  was  the  Prince  of  Monaco,  supreme  pontiff  of 
oceanographic  science,  who  established  forever  the  ex- 
istence of  the  fabulous  kraken.  In  one  of  his  intelligent 
excursions  across  oceanic  solitudes  he  fished  up  an  arm 
of  a  cuttlefish  eight  yards  long.  Furthermore  the 
stomachs  of  sharks,  upon  being  opened,  had  revealed 
to  him  the  gigantic  fragments  of  the  adversary. 

Short  and  terrible  battles  used  to  agitate  the  black  and 
phosphorescent  water,  thousands  of  fathoms  from  the 
surface,  with  whirlwinds  of  death. 


i8o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  shark  would  descend,  attracted  by  the  appetizing 
prospect  of  a  boneless  animal, — all  flesh  and  weighing 
several  tons.  He  would  make  his  hostile  invasion  in 
all  haste  so  as  not  to  be  obliged  to  endure  for  a  long 
time  the  formidable  pressure  of  the  abyss.  The  strug- 
gle between  the  two  ferocious  warriors  disputing  oceanic 
dominion  was  usually  brief  and  deadly, — the  mandible 
battling  with  the  sucker;  the  solid  and  cutting  equip- 
ment of  teeth  with  the  phosphorescent  mucosity  inces- 
santly slipping  by  and  opposing  the  blow  of  the  de- 
molishing head  like  a  battering  ram,  with  the  lashing 
blow  of  tentacles  thicker  and  heavier  than  an  elephant's 
trunk.  Sometimes  the  shark  would  remain  down  for- 
ever, enmeshed  in  a  skein  of  soft  snakes  absorbing  it 
with  gluttonous  deliberation;  at  other  times  it  would 
come  to  the  surface  with  its  skin  bristling  with  black 
tumors, — open  mouths  and  slashes  big  as  plates, — but 
with  its  stomach  full  of  gelatinous  meat. 

These  cuttlefish  in  the  Aquarium  were  nothing  more 
than  the  seaside  inhabitants  of  the  Mediterranean  coast, 
— poor  relations  of  the  gigantic  octopus  that  lighten  the 
black  gloom  of  the  oceanic  night  with  their  bluish  gleam 
of  burned-out  planets.  But  in  spite  of  their  relative 
smallness,  they  are  animated  by  the  same  destructive  in- 
iquity as  the  others.  They  are  rabid  stomachs  that  cleanse 
the  waters  of  all  animal  life,  digesting  it  in  a  vacuum  of 
death.  Even  the  bacteria  and  infusoria  appear  to  flee 
from  the  liquid  that  envelops  these  ferocious  solitudes. 

Ferragut  passed  many  mornings  contemplating  their 
treacherous  immovability,  followed  by  deadly  unfoldings 
the  moment  that  their  prey  came  down  into  the  tank. 
He  began  to  hate  these  monsters  for  no  other  reason 
than  because  they  were  so  interesting  to  Freya.  Their 
stupid  cruelty  appeared  to  him  but  a  reflex  of  that  in- 
comprehensible woman's  character  that  was  repulsing 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  181 

him  by  fleeing  from  him  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  by 
her  smiles  and  her  signals,  was  sending  out  a  wireless  in 
order  to  keep  him  prisoner. 

Masculine  wrath  convulsed  the  sailor  after  each  futile 
daily  trip  in  pursuit  of  her  invisible  personality. 

"She's  just  doing  it  to  lead  me  on !  .  .  ."  he  exclaimed. 
"It's  got  to  come  to  an  end!  I  won't  stand  any  more 
bull-baiting.  .  .  .  I'll  just  show  her  that  I'm  able  to  live 
without  her!'' 

He  swore  not  to  seek  her  any  more.  It  was  an  agree- 
able diversion  for  the  weeks  that  he  had  to  spend  in 
Naples,  but  why  keep  it  up  when  she  was  fatiguing 
him  in  such  an  insufferable  way?  .  .  . 

"All  is  ended,"  he  said  again,  clenching  his  hands. 

And  the  following  day  he  was  wailing  outside  of  the 
hotel  just  as  on  other  days.  Then  he  would  go  for  his 
customary  stroll,  afterwards  entering  the  Aquarium  in 
the  same,  old  hope  of  seeing  her  before  the  tanks  of  the 
cuttlefish. 

He  finally  met  her  there  one  morning,  about  midday. 
He  had  been  over  to  his  boat  and  on  returning  entered, 
through  force  of  habit,  sure  that  at  this  hour  he  would 
find  nobody  but  the  employees  feeding  the  fishes. 

His  dazzled  eyes  were  affected  with  almost  instantane- 
ous blindness  before  becoming  accustomed  to  the  shad- 
ows of  the  greenish  galleries.  .  .  .  And  when  the  first 
images  began  to  be  vaguely  outlined  on  his  retina, 
he  stepped  hastily  backward,  so  great  was  his  sur- 
prise. 

He  couldn't  believe  it  and  raised  his  hand  to  his  eyes 
as  though  wishing  to  clarify  his  vision  with  an  energetic 
rubbing.  Was  that  really  Freya?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was  she, 
dressed  in  white,  leaning  on  the  bar  of  iron  that  sep- 
arated the  tanks  from  the  public,  looking  fixedly  at  the 
glass  which  covered  the  rocky  cavern  Kke  a  transparent 


182  MARE  NOSTRUM 

door.  She  had  just  opened  her  hand-bag,  giving  some 
coins  to  the  guardian  who  was  disappearing  at  the  end 
of  the  gallery. 

"Oh,  is  that  you?"  she  said,  on  seeing  Ferragut, 
without  any  surprise,  as  if  she  had  left  him  but  a  short 
time  before. 

Then  she  explained  her  presence  at  this  late  hour. 
She  had  not  visited  the  Aquarium  for  a  long  time.  The 
tank  of  cuttlefish  was  to  her  like  a  cage  of  tropical 
birds,  full  of  colors  and  cries  that  enlivened  the  solitude 
of  a  melancholy  matron. 

She  always  adored  the  monsters  living  on  the  other 
side  of  these  crystals,  and  before  going  to  lunch  she  had 
felt  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  them.  She  feared  that 
the  guard  had  not  been  taking  good  care  of  them  during 
her  absence. 

"Jtist  see  how  beautiful  they  are !  .  .  ." 

And  she  pointed  to  a  tank  that  appeared  empty. 
Neither  in  its  quiet  still  waters  nor  on  the  floor  of  the 
oily  sand  could  be  seen  the  slightest  animal  motion. 
Ferragut  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and  after 
long  contemplation  discovered  there  three  occupants. 
With  the  amazing  mimicry  of  their  species,  they  had 
changed  themselves  to  appear  like  minerals.  Only  a 
pair  of  expert  eyes  would  have  been  able  to  discover 
them,  heaped  together,  each  one  huddled  in  a  crack  of 
the  rocks,  voluntarily  raising  his  smooth  skin  into  stone- 
like  protuberances  and  ridges.  Their  faculty  of  chang- 
ing color  permitted  them  to  take  on  that  of  their  hard 
base  and,  disguised  in  this  way  like  three  rocky  excres- 
cences, they  were  treacherously  awaiting  the  passing  of 
their  victim,  just  as  though  they  were  in  the  open  sea. 

"Soon  we  shall  see  them  in  all  their  majesty,"  con- 
tinued Freya  as  though  she  were  speaking  of  something 
belonging  to  her.  "The  guardian  is  going  to  feed  them. 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  183 

.  .  .  Poor  things !  Nobody  pays  any  attention  to  them ; 
everybody  detests  them.  To  me  they  owe  whatever  they 
get  between  meals." 

As  if  scenting  the  proximity  of  food,  one  of  the  three 
stones  suddenly  shuddered  with  a  polychromatic  chill. 
Its  elastic  covering  began  swelling.  There  passed  over  its 
surface  stripes  of  color,  reddish  clouds  changing  from 
crimson  to  green,  circular  spots  that  became  inflated  in 
the  swelling,  forming  tremulous  excrescences.  Between 
two  cracks  there  appeared  a  yellowish  eye  of  ferocious 
and  stupid  fixity;  a  darkened  and  malignant  globe  like 
that  of  serpents,  was  now  looking  toward  the  crystal  as 
though  seeing  far  beyond  that  diamond  wall. 

"They  know  me!"  exclaimed  Freya  joyously.  "I'm 
sure  that  they  know  me!  .  .  ." 

And  she  enumerated  the  clever  traits  of  these  monsters 
to  whom  she  attributed  great  intelligence.  They  were 
the  ones  that,  like  astute  builders,  had  dappled  the  stones 
piled  up  on  the  bottom,  forming  bulwarks  in  whose 
shelter  they  had  disguised  themselves  in  order  to  pounce 
upon  their  victims.  In  the  sea,  when  wishing  to  sur- 
prise a  meaty,  toothsome  oyster,  they  waited  in  hiding 
until  the  two  valves  should  open  to  feed  upon  the  water 
and  the  light,  and  had  often  introduced  a  pebble  between 
the  shells  and  then  inserted  their  tentacles  in  the 
crevice. 

Their  love  of  liberty  was  another  thing  which  aroused 
Freya's  enthusiasm.  If  they  should  have  to  endure  more 
than  a  year  of  enclosure  in  the  Aquarium,  they  would 
become  sick  with  sadness  and  would  gnaw  their  claws 
until  they  killed  themselves. 

"Ah,  the  charming  and  vigorous  bandits!"  she  con- 
tinued in  hysterical  enthusiasm.  "I  adore  them.  I 
should  like  to  have  them  in  my  home,  as  they  have 


184  MARE  NOSTRUM 

gold-fishes  in  a  globe,  to  feed  them  every  hour,  to  see 
how  they  would  devour.  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  felt  a  recurrence  of  the  same  uneasiness 
that  he  had  experienced  one  morning  in  the  temple  of 
Virgil. 

"She's  crazy !"  he  said  to  himself. 

But  in  spite  of  her  craziness,  he  greatly  enjoyed  the 
faint  perfume  that  exhaled  through  the  opening  at  her 
throat. 

He  no  longer  saw  the  silent  world  that,  sparkling  with 
color,  was  swimming  or  paddling  behind  the  crystal. 
She  was  now  the  only  creature  who  existed  for  him. 
And  he  listened  to  her  voice  as  though  it  were  distant 
music  as  it  continued  explaining  briefly  all  the  particu- 
lars about  those  stones  that  were  really  animals,  about 
those  globes  that,  on  distending  themselves,  showed  their 
organs  and  again  hid  themselves  under  a  gelatinous  suc- 
cession of  waves. 

They  were  a  sac,  a  pocket,  an  elastic  mask,  in  whose 
interior  existed  only  water  or  air.  Between  their  arm-, 
pits  was  their  mouth,  armed  with  long  jaw  bones,  like 
a  parrot's  beak.  When  breathing,  a  crack  of  their  skin 
would  open  and  close  alternately.  From  one  of  their 
sides  came  forth  a  tube  in  the  form  of  a  tunnel  that 
swallowed  equally  the  respirable  water  and  drew  it 
through  both  entrances  into  its  branching  cavity.  Their 
multiple  arms,  fitted  out  with  cupping  glasses,  functioned 
like  hign-pressure  apparatus  for  grasping  and  holding 
prey,  for  paddling  and  for  running. 

The  glassy  eye  of  one  of  the  monsters  appearing  and 
disappearing  among  its  soft  folds,  stirred  Freya's  mem- 
ories. She  began  speaking  in  a  low  tone  as  if  to  her- 
self, without  paying  any  attention  to  Ferragut  who  was 
perplexed  at  the  incoherence  of  her  words.  The  appear- 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  185 

ance  of  this  octopus  brought  to  her  mind  "the  eye  of 
the  morning." 

The  sailor  asked :  "What  is  the  'eye  of  the  morning'  ?" 
.  .  .  And  he  again  told  himself  that  Freya  was  crazy 
when  he  learned  that  this  was  the  name  of  a  tame  ser- 
pent, a  reptile  of  checkered  sides  that  she  wore  as  neck- 
lace or  bracelet  over  there  in  her  home  in  the  island 
of  Java, — an  island  where  groves  exhaled  an  irresistible 
perfume,  covered  in  the  sunlight  with  trembling  and 
monstrous  flowers  like  animals,  peopled  at  night  with 
phosphorescent  stars  that  leaped  from  tree  to  tree. 

"I  used  to  dance  naked,  with  a  transparent  veil  tied 
around  my  hips  and  another  floating  from  my  head.  .  .  . 
I  would  dance  for  hours  and  hours,  just  like  a  Brahman 
priestess  before  the  image  of  the  terrible  Siva,  and  the 
'eye  of  the  morning'  would  follow  my  dances  with  ele- 
gant undulations.  ...  I  believe  in  the  divine  Siva.  Don't 
you  know  who  Siva  is?  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  uttered  an  impatient  aside  to  the  gloomy 
god.  What  he  wanted  to  know  was  the  reason  that  had 
taken  her  to  Java,  the  paradisiacal  and  mysterious  island. 

"My  husband  was  a  Dutch  commandant,"  she  said. 
"We  were  married  in  Amsterdam  and  I  followed  him 
to  Asia." 

Ulysses  protested  at  this  piece  of  news.  Had  not  her 
husband  been  a  great  student?  .  .  .  Had  he  not  taken 
her  to  the  Andes  in  search  of  prehistoric  beasts?  .  .  . 

Freya  hesitated  a  moment  in  order  to  be  sure,  but  her 
doubts  were  short. 

"So  he  was,"  she  said  as  a  matter  of  course.  "That 
professor  was  my  second  husband.  I  have  been  married 
twice." 

The  captain  had  not  time  to  express  his  surprise.  Over 
the  top  of  the  tank,  on  the  crystalline  surface  silvered 
by  the  sun,  passed  a  human  shadow.  .  It  was  th^  silhou- 


J86  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ette  of  the  keeper.  Down  below,  the  three  shapeless 
bags  began  to  move.  Freya  was  trembling  with  emotion 
like  an  enthusiastic  and  impatient  spectator. 

Something  fell  into  the  water,  descending  little  by  little, 
a  bit  of  dead  sardine  that  was  scattering  filaments  of 
meat  and  yellow  scales.  An  odd  community  interest 
appeared  to  exist  among  these  monsters:  only  the  one 
nearest  the  prey  bestirred  himself  to  eat.  Perhaps  they 
voluntarily  took  turns ;  perhaps  their  glance  only  reached 
a  little  beyond  their  tentacles. 

The  one  nearest  to  the  glass  suddenly  unfolded  it- 
self with  the  violence  of  a  spring  escaping  from  an  ex- 
plosive projectile.  He  gave  a  bound,  remaining  fastened 
to  the  ground  by  one  of  his  radiants,  and  raised  the  others 
like  a  bundle  of  reptiles.  Suddenly  he  converted  himself 
into  a  monstrous  star,  filling  almost  the  entire  glassy 
tank,  swollen  with  rage,  and  coloring  his  outer  covering 
with  green,  blue,  and  red. 

His  tentacles  clutched  the  miserable  prey,  doubling  it 
inward  in  order  to  bear  it  to  his  mouth.  The  beast 
then  contracted,  and  flattened  himself  out  so  as  to  rest 
on  the  ground.  His  armed  feet  disappeared  and  there 
only  remained  visible  a  trembling  bag  through  which  was 
passing  like  a  succession  of  waves,  from  one  extreme  to 
the  other,  the  digestive  swollen  mass  which  became  a 
bubbling,  mucous  pulpiness  in  a  dye-pot  that  colored  and 
discolored  itself  with  contortions  of  assimilative  fury; 
from  time  to  time  the  agglomeration  showed  its  stupid 
and  ferocious  eyes. 

New  victims  continued  falling  down  through  the  wa- 
ters and  other  monsters  leaped  in  their  turn,  spreading 
out  their  stars,  then  shrinking  together  in  order  to  grind 
their  prey  in  their  entrails  with  the  assimilation  of  a- 
tiger. 

Freya  gazed  upon  this  horrifying  digestive  process 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  587 

with  thrills  of  rapture.  Ulysses  felt  her  resting  instinct- 
ively upon  him  with  a  contact  growing  more  intimate 
every  moment.  From  shoulder  to  ankle  the  captain  could 
see  the  sweet  reliefs  of  her  soft  flesh  whose  warmth 
made  itself  perceptible  through  her  clothing  and  filled 
him  with  nervous  tremors. 

Frequently  she  turned  her  eyes  away  from  the  cruel 
spectacle,  glancing  at  him  quickly  with  an  odd  ex- 
pression. Her  pupils  appeared  enlarged,  and  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  had  a  wateriness  of  morbid  reflection.  Fer- 
ragut  felt  that  thus  the  insane  must  look  in  their  great 
crises. 

She  was  speaking  between  her  teeth,  with  emotional 
pauses,  admiring  the  ferocity  of  the  cuttlefish,  griev- 
ing that  she  did  not  possess  their  vigor  and  their  cruelty. 

"If  I  could  only  be  like  them!  ...  To  be  able  to  go 
through  the  streets  .  .  .  through  the  world,  stretching 
out  my  talons!  ...  To  devour!  ...  to  devour!  They 
would  struggle  uselessly  to  free  themselves  from  the 
winding  of  my  tentacles.  .  .  .  To  absorb  them !  ...  To 
eat  them!  ...  To  cause  them  to  disappear!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  beheld  her  as  oh  that  first  day  near  the  temple 
of  the  poet,  possessed  with  a  fierce  wrath  against  men, 
longing  extravagantly  for  their  extermination 

Their  digestion  finished,  the  polypi  had  begun  to  swim 
around,  and  were  now  horizontal  skeins,  fluting  the  tank 
with  elegance.  They  appeared  like  torpedo  boats  with  a 
conical  prow,  dragging  along  the  heavy,  thick  and  long 
hair  of  their  tentacles.  Their  excited  appetite  made  them 
glide  through  the  water  in  all  directions,  seeking  new 
victims. 

Freya  protested.  The  guard  had  only  brought  them 
dead  bodies.  What  she  wanted  was  the  struggle,  the 
sacrifice,  the  death.  The  bits  of  sardine  were  a  meal 


188  MARE  NOSTRUM 

without  substance  for  these  bandits  that  had  zest  only 
for  food  seasoned  with  assassination. 

As  though  the  pulps  had  understood  her  complaints, 
they  had  fallen  on  the  sandy  bottom,  flaccid,  inert, 
breathing  through  their  funnels. 

A  little  crab  began  to  descend  at  the  end  of  a  fhread 
desperately  moving  its  claws. 

Freya  pressed  still  closer  to  Ulysses,  excited  at  the 
thought  of  the  approaching  spectacle.  One  of  the  bags, 
transformed  into  a  star,  suddenly  leaped  forward.  Its 
arms  writhed  like  serpents  seeking  the  recent  arrival.  In 
vain  the  guard  pulled  the  thread  up,  wishing  to  prolong 
the  chase.  The  tentacles  clamped  their  irresistible  open- 
ings upon  the  body  of  the  victim,  pulling  upon  the  line 
with  such  force  that  it  broke,  the  octopus  falling  on  the 
bottom  with  his  prey. 

Freya  clapped  her  hands  in  applause. 

"Bravo!  .  .  ."  She  was  exceedingly  pale,  though  a 
feverish  heat  was  coursing  through  her  body. 

She  leaned  toward  the  crystal  in  order  to  see  better 
the  devouring  activity  of  that  pyramidal  stomach  which 
had  on  its  sharp  point  a  diminutive  parrot  head  with 
two  ferocious  eyes  and  around  its  base  the  twisted  skeins 
of  its  arms  full  of  projecting  disks.  With  these  it  pressed 
the  crab  against  its  mouth,  injecting  under  its  shell  the 
venomous  output  of  its  salivary  glands,  paralyzing  thus 
every  movement  of  existence.  Then  it  swallowed  its 
prey  slowly  with  the  deglutition  of  a  boa  constrictor. 

"How  beautiful  it  is !"  she  said. 

The  other  beasts  also  seized  their  live  victims,  paralyzed 
and  devoured  them,  moving  their  flabby  bodies  in  order 
to  permit  the  passage  of  their  swelling  nutritive  waves 
and  clouds  of  various  colors. 

Then  the  guard  tossed  in  a  crab,  but  one  without  any 
string  whatever.  Freya  screamed  with  enthusiasm. 


THE  AQUARIUM  OF  NAPLES  189 

This  was  the  kind  of  hunt  that  takes  place  in  the 
ferocious  mystery  of  the  sea,  a  race  with  death,  a 
destruction  preceded  with  emotional  agony  and  hazards. 
The  poor  crustacean,  divining  its  danger,  was  swimming 
towards  the  rocks  hoping  to  take  refuge  in  the  nearest 
crevice.  A  polypus  came  up  behind  it,  whilst  the  others 
continued  their  digestion. 

t.     "It's  escaping!  .  .  .  It's  escaping!"  cried  Freya,  pal- 
pitating with  interest. 

The  crab  scrambled  through  the  stones,  sheltering  it- 
self in  their  windings.  The  polypus  was  no  longer  swim- 
ming; it  was  running  like  a  terrestrial  animal,  climbing 
over  the  rocks  by  its  armed  extremities,  which  were  now 
serving  as  apparatus  of  locomotion.  It  was  the  struggle 
of  a  tiger  with  a  mouse.  When  the  crab  had  half  of  its 
body  already  hidden  within  the  green  lichens  of  a  hole, 
one  of  the  heavy  serpents  fell  upon  its  back  clutching  it 
with  the  irresistible  suction  of  his  air-holes,  and  causing 
it  to  disappear  within  his  skein  of  tentacles. 

"Ah !"  sighed  Freya,  throwing  herself  back  as  though 
she  were  going  to  faint  on  Ulysses'  breast. 

He  shuddered,  feeling  that  a  serpentine  band  of  tremu- 
lous pressure  had  encircled  his  body.  The  acts  of  that 
unbalanced  creature  were  fraying  his  nerves. 

He  felt  as  though  a  monster  of  the  same  class  as  those 
in  the  tank  but  "much  larger — a  gigantic  octopus  from 
the  oceanic  depths — must  have  slipped  treacherously  be- 
hind him  and  was  clutching  him  in  one  of  its  tentacles. 
He  could  feel  the  pressure  of  its  feelers  around  his  waist, 
growing  closer  and  more  ferocious. 

Freya  was  holding  him  captive  with  one  of  her  arms. 
She  had  wound  herself  tightly  around  him  and  was 
clasping  his  waist  with  all  her  force,  as  though  trying  to 
break  his  vigorous  body  in  two. 

Then  he  saw  the  head  of  this  woman  approaching  him 


190  MARE  NOSTRUM 

with  an  aggressive  swiftness  as  if  she  were  going  to  bite 
him.  .  .  .  Her  enlarged  eyes,  tearful  and  misty,  ap- 
peared to  be  far  off,  very  far  off.  Perhaps  she  was  not 
even  looking  at  him.  .  .  .  Her  trembling  mouth,  bluish 
with  emotion,  a  round  and  protruding  mouth  like  an 
absorbing  duct,  was  seeking  the  sailor's  mouth,  taking 
possession  of  it  and  devouring  it  with  her  lips. 

It  was  the  kiss  of  a  cupping-glass,  long,  dominating, 
painful.  Ulysses  realized  that  he  had  never  before  been 
kissed  in  this  way.  The  water  from  that  mouth  surging 
across  her  row  of  teeth,  discharged  itself  in  his  like 
swift  poison.  A  shudder  unfamiliar  until  then  ran  the 
entire  length  of  his  back,  making  him  close  his  eyes. 

He  felt  as  if  all  his  interior  had  turned  to  liquid. 
He  had  a  presentiment  that  his  life  was  going  to  date 
from  this  kiss,  that  with  it  was  going  to  begin  a  new 
existence,  that  he  never  would  be  able  to  free  himself 
from  these  deadly  and  caressing  lips  with  their  faint 
savor  of  cinnamon,  of  incense,  of  Asiatic  forests  haunted 
with  sensuousness  and  intrigue. 

And  he  let  himself  be  dragged  down  by  the  caress  of 
this  wild  beast,  with  thought  lost  and  body  inert  and 
resigned,  like  a  castaway  who  descends  and  descends 
the  infinite  strata  of  the  abyss  without  ever  reaching 
bottom. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE 

AFTER  that  kiss,  the  lover  believed  that  all  his  desires 
were  about  to  be  immediately  realized.  The  most  diffi- 
cult part  of  the  road  was  already  passed.  But  with 
Freya  one  always  had  to  expect  something  absurd  and 
inconceivable. 

The  midday  gun  aroused  them  from  a  rapture  that 
had  lasted  but  a  few  seconds  as  long  as  years.  The 
steps  of  the  guard,  growing  nearer  all  the  time,  finally 
separated  the  two  and  unlocked  their  arms. 

Freya  was  the  first  to  calm  herself.  Only  a  slight  haze 
flitted  across  her  pupils  now,  like  the  vapor  from  a  re- 
cently extinguished  fire. 

"Good-by.  .  .  .  They  are  waiting  for  me." 

And  she  went  out  from  the  Aquarium  followed  by 
Ferragut,  still  stammering  and  tremulous.  The  ques- 
tions and  petitions  with  which  he  pursued  her  while 
crossing  the  promenade  were  of  no  avail. 

"So  far  and  no  further/'  she  said  at  one  of  the  cross 
streets  of  Chiaja.  "We  shall  see  one  another.  ...  I 
formally  promise  you  that.  .  .  .  Now  leave  me." 

And  she  disappeared  with  the  firm  step  of  a  handsome 
huntress,  as  serene  of  countenance  as  though  not  re- 
calling the  slightest  recollection  of  her  primitive,  pas- 
sional paroxysm. 

This  time  she  fulfilled  her  promise.  Ferragut  saw 
her  every  day. 

They  met  in  the  mornings  near  the  hotel,  and  some- 

191 


I92  MARE  NOSTRUM 

times  she  came  down  into  the  dining-room,  exchanging 
smiles  and  glances  with  the  sailor,  who  fortunately; 
was  sitting  at  a  distant  table.  Then  they  took  strolls 
and  chatted  together,  Freya  laughing  good-naturedly  at 
the  amorous  vows  of  the  captain.  .  .  .  And  that  was  all. 

With  a  woman's  skilfulness  in  sounding  a  man's  depth 
and  penetrating  into  his  secrets, — keeping  fast-locked 
and  unapproachable  her  own, — she  gradually  informed 
herself  of  the  incidents  and  adventures  in  the  life  of 
Ulysses.  Vainly  he  spoke,  in  a  natural  reciprocity,  of 
the  island  of  Java,  of  the  mysterious  dances  before  Siva, 
of  the  journeys  through  the  lakes  of  the  Andes.  Freya 
had  to  make  an  effort  to  recall  them.  "Ah !  .  .  .  Yes !" 
And  after  giving  this  distracted  exclamation  for  every 
answer,  she  would  continue  the  process  of  delving  eagerly 
into  the  former  life  of  her  lover.  Ulysses  sometimes  be- 
gan to  wonder  if  that  embrace  in  the  Aquarium  could 
have  occurred  in  his  dreams. 

One  morning  the  captain  managed  to  bring  about  the 
realization  of  one  of  his  ambitions.  He  was  jealous  of 
the  unknown  friends  that  were  lunching  with  Freya.  In 
vain  she  affirmed  that  the  doctor  was  the  only  companion 
of  the  hours  that  she  passed  outside  of  the  hotel.  In 
order  to  tranquillize  himself,  the  sailor  insisted  that  the 
widow  should  accept  his  invitations.  They  ought  to 
extend  their  strolls;  they  ought  to  visit  the  beautiful 
outskirts  of  Naples,  lunching  in  their  gay  little  trattorias 
or  eating-houses. 

They  ascended  together  the  funicular  road  of  Monte 
Vomero  to  the  heights  crowned  by  the  castle  of  S.  Elmo 
and  the  monastery  of  S.  Martino.  After  admiring  in 
the  museum  of  the  abbey  the  artistic  souvenirs  of  the 
Bourbon  domination  and  that  of  Murat,  they  entered  into 
a  nearby  trattoria  with  tables  placed  on  an  esplanade 
from  whose  balconies  they  could  take  in  the  un  forget- 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  193 

able  spectacle  of  the  gulf,  seeing  Vesuvius  in  the  dis- 
tance and  the  chain  of  mountains  smoking  on  the  horizon 
like  an  immovable  succession  of  dark  rose-colored  waves. 

Naples  was  extended  in  horseshoe  form  on  the  bow- 
shaped  border  of  the  sea  tossing  up  from  its  enormous 
white  mass,  as  though  they  were  bits  of  foam,  the  clus- 
ters of  houses  in  the  suburbs. 

A  swarthy  oysterman,  slender,  with  eyes  like  live  coals, 
and  enormous  mustaches,  had  his  stand  at  the  door  of 
the  restaurant,  offering  cockles  and  shell  fish  of  strong 
odor  that  had  been  half  a  week  perhaps  in  ascending 
from  the  city  to  the  heights  of  Vomero.  Freya  jested 
about  the  oysterman's  typical  good  looks  and  the  lan- 
guishing glances  that  he  was  forever  casting  toward  all 
the  ladies  that  entered  the  establishment  ...  a  prime 
discovery  for  a  tourist  anxious  for  adventures  in  local 
color. 

In  the  background  a  small  orchestra  was  accompany- 
ing a  tenor  voice  or  was  playing  alone,  enlarging  upon 
the  melodies  and  amplifying  the  measures  with  Neapoli- 
tan exaggeration. 

Freya  felt  a  childish  hilarity  upon  seating  herself  at 
the  table,  seeing  over  the  cloth  the  luminous  summit. 
Bisected  in  the  foreground  by  a  crystal  vase  full  of 
flowers,  the  distant  panorama  of  the  city,  the  gulf,  and 
its  capes  spread  itself  before  her  eager  eyes.  The  air 
on  this  peak  enchanted  her  after  two  weeks  passed  with- 
out stirring  outside  of  Naples.  The  harps  and  violins 
gave  the  situation  a  pathetic  thrill  and  served  as  a  back- 
ground for  conversation,  just  as  the  vague  murmurs  of 
a  hidden  orchestra  give  the  effect  in  the  theater  of 
psalmody  or  of  melancholy  verses  moving  the  listener 
to  tears. 

They  ate  with  the  nervousness  which  joy  supplies.  At 
some  tables  further  on  a  young  man  and  woman  were 


194  MARE  NOSTRUM 

forgetting  the  courses  in  order  to  clasp  hands  under- 
neath the  cloth  and  place  knee  against  knee  with  frenzied 
pressure.  The  two  were  smiling,  looking  at  the  land- 
scape and  then  at  each  other.  Perhaps  they  were  for- 
eigners recently  married,  perhaps  fugitive  lovers,  realiz- 
ing in  this  picturesque  spot  the  billing  and  cooing  so 
many  times  anticipated  in  their  distant  courtship. 

Two  English  doctors  from  a  hospital  ship,  white  haired 
and  uniformed,  were  disregarding  their  repast  in  order 
to  paint  directly  in  their  albums,  with  a  childish  painstak- 
ing crudeness,  the  same  panorama  that  was  portrayed 
on  the  postal  cards  offered  for  sale  at  the  door  of  the 
restaurant. 

A  fat-bellied  bottle  with  a  petticoat  of  straw  and  a 
long  neck  attracted  Freya's  hands  to  the  table.  She 
ridiculed  the  sobriety  of  Ferragut,  who  was  diluting 
with  water  the  reddish  blackness  of  the  Italian  wine. 

"Thus  your  ancestors,  the  Argonauts,  must  have 
drunk,"  she  said  gayly.  "Thus  your  grandfather,  Ulys- 
ses, undoubtedly  drank." 

And  herself  filling  the  captain's  glass  with  an  exag- 
geratedly careful  division  of  the  parts  of  water  and  wine, 
she  added  gayly: 

"We  are  going  to  make  a  libation  to  the  gods." 

These  libations  were  very  frequent.  Freya's  peals  of 
laughter  made  the  Englishmen,  interrupted  in  their  con- 
scientious work,  turn  their  glances  toward  her.  The 
sailor  felt  himself  overcome  by  a  warm  feeling  of  well- 
being,  by  a  sensation  of  repose  and  confidence,  as  though 
this  woman  were  unquestionably  his  already. 

Seeing  that  the  two  lovers,  terminating  their  luncheon 
hastily,  were  arising  with  blushing  precipitation  as 
though  overpowered  by  some  sudden  desire,  his  glance 
became  tender  and  fraternal.  .  .  .  Adieu,  adieu,  compan- 
ions! 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  195 

The  voice  of  the  widow  recalled  him  to  reality. 

"Ulysses,  make  love  to  me.  .  .  .  You  haven't  yet  told 
me  this  whole  day  long  that  you  love  me." 

In  spite  of  the  smiling  and  mocking  tone  of  this  order, 
he  obeyed  her,  repeating  once  more  his  promises  and 
his  desires.  Wine  was  giving  to  his  words  a  thrill  of 
emotion;  the  musical  moaning  of  the  orchestra  was  ex- 
citing his  sensibilities  and  he  was  so  touched  with  his 
own  eloquence  that  his  eyes  slightly  filled  with  tears. 

The  high  voice  of  the  tenor,  as  though  it  were  an  echo 
of  Ferragut's  thought,  was  singing  a  romance  of  the 
fiesta  of  Piedigrotta,  a  lamentation  of  melancholy  love, 
a  canticle  of  death,  the  final  mother  of  hopeless  lovers. 

"All  a  lie !"  said  Freya,  laughing.  "These  Mediterra- 
neans. .  .  .  What  comedians  they  are  for  love!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  was  uncertain  as  to  whether  she  was  referring 
to  him  or  to  the  singer.  She  continued  talking,  placid 
and  disdainful  at  the  same  time,  because  of  their  sur- 
roundings. 

"Love,  .  .  .  love!  In  these  countries  they  can't  talk 
of  anything  else.  It  is  almost  an  industry,  somewhat 
scrupulously  prepared  for  the  credulous  and  simple  peo- 
ple from  the  North.  They  all  harp  on  love :  this  howling 
singer,  you  .  .  .  even  the  oysterman.  .  .  ." 

Then  she  added  maliciously: 

"I  ought  to  warn  you  that  you  have  a  rival.  Be  very 
careful,  Ferragut!" 

She  turned  her  head  in  order  to  look  at  the  oyster- 
man. He  was  occupied  in  the  contemplation  of  a  fat 
lady  with  grisled  hair  and  abundant  jewels,  a  lady  es- 
corted by  her  husband,  who  was  looking  with  astonish- 
ment at  the  vendor's  killing  glances  without  being  able 
to  understand  them. 

The  lady-killer  was  stroking  his  mustache  affectedly, 
looking  from  time  to  time  at  his  cloth  suit  in  order  to 


196  MARE  NOSTRUM 

smooth  out  the  wrinkles  and  brush  off  the  specks  of  dust. 
He  was  a  handsome  pirate  disguised  as  a  gentleman. 
Upon  noticing  Freya's  interest,  he  changed  the  course 
of  his  glances,  poised  his  fine  figure  and  replied  to  her 
questioning  eyes  with  the  smile  of  a  bad  angel,  making 
her  understand  his  discretion  and  skillfulness  in  ingratiat- 
ing himself  behind  husbands  and  escorts. 

"There  he  is !"  cried  Freya  with  peals  of  laughter.  "I 
already  have  a  new  admirer!  .  .  ." 

The  swarthy  charmer  was  restrained  by  the  scan- 
dalous publicity  with  which  this  lady  was  receiving  his 
mysterious  insinuations.  Ferragut  spoke  of  knocking 
the  scamp  down  on  his  oyster  shells  with  a  good  pair 
of  blows. 

"Now  don't  be  ridiculous/'  she  protested.  "Poor  man ! 
Perhaps  he  has  a  wife  and  many  children.  .  .  .  He  is 
the  father  of  a  family  and  wants  to  take  money 
home." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  the  two.  Ulysses 
appeared  offended  by  the  lightness  and  cruelty  of  fiis 
companion. 

"Now  don't  you  be  cross,"  she  said.  "See  here,  my 
shark!  Smile  a  bit.  Show  me  your  teeth.  .  .  .  The 
libations  to  the  gods  are  to  blame.  Are  you  offended 
because  I  wished  to  compare  you  with  that  clown?  .  .  . 
.What  if  you  are  the  only  man  that  I  appreciate  at  all ! 
.  .  .  Ulysses,  I  am  speaking  to  you  seriously, — with  all 
the  frankness  that  wine  gives.  I  ought  not  to  tell  you 
so,  but  I  admit  it.  ...  If  I  should  ever  love  a  man, 
that  man  would  be  you." 

Ferragut  instantly  forgot  all  his  irritation  in  order  to 
listen  to  her  and  envelop  her  in  the  adoring  light  of  his 
eyes.  Freya  averted  her  glance  while  speaking,  not  wish- 
ing to  meet  his  eye,  as  though  she  were  weighing  what 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  197 

she  was  saying  while  her  glance  wandered  over  the  wide- 
spread landscape. 

Ulysses'  origin  was  what  interested  her  most.  She 
who  had  traveled  over  almost  the  entire  world,  had  trod- 
den the  soil  of  Spain  only  a  few  hours,  when  disem- 
barking in  Barcelona  from  the  transatlantic  liner  which 
he  had  commanded.  The  Spaniards  inspired  her  both 
with  fear  and  attraction.  A  noble  gravity  reposed  in  the 
depths  of  their  ardent  hyperbole. 

"You  are  an  exaggerated  being,  a  meridional  who  en- 
larges everything  and  lies  about  everything,  believing 
all  his  own  lies.  But  I  am  sure  that  if  you  should  ever 
be  really  in  love  with  me,  without  fine  phrases  or  pas- 
sionate fictions,  your  affection  would  be  more  sane  and 
deep  than  that  of  other  men.  .  .  .  My  friend,  the  doctor, 
says  that  you  are  a  crude  people  and  that  you  have  only 
simulated  the  nervousness,  unbalanced  behavior,  and  in- 
trigues that  accompany  love  in  other  civilized  countries 
even  to  refinement." 

Freya  looked  at  the  sailor,  making  a  long  pause. 

"Therefore  you  strike/'  she  continued,  "therefore  you 
kill  when  you  feel  love  and  jealousy.  You  are  brutes 
but  not  mediocre.  You  do  not  abandon  a  woman  inten- 
tionally; you  do  not  exploit  her.  .  .  You  are  a  new 
species  of  man  for  me,  who  has  known  so  many.  If  I 
were  able  to  believe  in  love,  I  would  have  you  at  my  side 
all  my  life.  .  .  .  All  my  life  long !" 

A  light,  gentle  music,  like  the  vibration  of  fragile  and 
delicate  crystal,  spread  itself  over  the  terrace.  Freya 
followed  its  rhythm  with  a  light  motion  of  the  head.  She 
was  accustomed  to  this  cloying  music,  this  Serenata  of 
Toselli, — a  passionate  lament  that  always  touches  the 
soul  of  the  tourist  in  the  halls  of  the  grand  hotels.  She, 
who  at  other  times  had  ridiculed  thJ£  artificial  and  re- 
fined little  music,  now  felt  tears  welling  up  in  her  eyes. 


198  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Not  to  be  able  to  love  anybody!"  she  murmured. 
"To  wander  alone  through  the  world!  .  .  .  And  love 
is  such  a  beautiful  thing!" 

She  guessed  what  Ferragut  was  going  to  say, — his  pro- 
test of  eternal  passion,  his  offer  to  unite  his  life  to  hers 
forever,  #nd  she  cut  his  words  short  with  an  energetic 
gesture. 

"No,  Ulysses,  you  do  not  know  me;  you  do  not 
know  who  I  am.  ...  Go  far  from  me.  Some  days  ago 
it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me.  I  hate  men  and 
do  not  mind  injuring  them,  but  now  you  inspire  me  with 
a  certain  interest  because  I  believe  you  are  good  and 
frank  in  spite  of  your  haughty  exterior.  ...  Go!  Do 
not  seek  me.  This  is  the  best  proof  of  affection  that  I 
can  give  you." 

She  said  this  vehemently,  as  if  she  saw  Ferragut  run- 
ning toward  danger  and  was  crying  out  in  order  to  ward 
him  from  it. 

"On  the  stage/'  she  continued,  "there  is  a  role  that 
they  call  The  Fatal  Woman/  and  certain  artists  are  not 
able  to  play  any  other  part.  They  were  born  to  repre- 
sent this  personage.  ...  I  am  a  'Fatal  Woman/  but 
really  and  truly.  ...  If  you  could  know  my  life!  .  .  . 
It  is  better  that  you  do  not  know  it ;  even  I  wish  to  ignore 
it.  I  am  happy  only  when  I  forget  it.  ...  Ferragut,  my 
friend,  bid  me  farewell,  and  do  not  cross  my  path  again." 

But  Ferragut  protested  as  though  she  were  proposing 
a  cowardly  thing  to  him.  Flee?  Loving  her  so  much? 
If  she  had  enemies,  she  could  rely  upon  him  for  her  de- 
fense; if  she  wanted  wealth,  he  wasn't  a  millionaire, 
but.  .  .  . 

"Captain,"  interrupted  Freya,  "go  back  to  your  own 
people.  I  was  not  meant  for  you.  Think  of  your  wife 
and  son;  follow  your  own  life.  I  am  not  the  conquest 
that  is  cherished  for  a  few  weeks,  no  more.  Nobody 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  199 

can  trust  me  with  impunity.  I  have  suckers  just  like  the 
animals  that  we  saw  the  other  day ;  I  burn  and  sting  just 
like  those  transparent  parasols  in  the  Aquarium.  Flee, 
Ferragut!  .  .  .  Leave  me  alone.  .  .  .  Alone!" 

And  the  image  of  the  immense  barrenness  of  her  lonely 
future  made  the  tears  gush  from  her  eyes. 

The  music  had  ceased.  A  motionless  waiter  was  pre- 
tending to  look  far  away,  while  really  listening  to  their 
-conversation.  The  two  Englishmen  had  interrupted  their 
painting  in  order  to  glare  at  this  gentleman  who  was 
making  a  lady  weep.  The  sailor  began  to  feel  the  nerv- 
ous disquietude  which  a  difficult  situation  creates. 

"Ferragut,  pay  and  let  us  go,"  she  said,  divining  his 
state  of  mind. 

While  Ulysses  was  giving  money  to  the  waiters  and 
musicians,  she  dried  her  eyes  and  repaired  the  ravages 
to  her  complexion,  drawing  from  her  gold-mesh  bag  a 
powder  puff  and  little  mirror  in  whose  oval  she  con- 
templated herself  for  a  long  time. 

As  they  passed  out,  the  oysterman  turned  his  back, 
pretending  to  be  very  much  occupied  in  the  arrangement 
of  the  lemons  that  were  adorning  his  stand.  She  could 
not  see  his  face,  but  she  guessed,  nevertheless,  that  he 
was  muttering  a  bad  word, — the  most  terrible  that  can 
be  said  of  a  woman. 

They  went  slowly  toward  the  station  of  the  funicular 
road,  through  solitary  streets  and  between  garden  walls 
one  side  of  which  was  yellow  in  the  golden  sunlight  and 
the  other  blue  in  the  shade.  She  it  was  who  sought 
Ulysses'  arm,  supporting  herself  on  it  with  a  childish 
abandon  as  if  fatigue  had  overcome  her  after  the  first 
few  steps. 

Ferragut  pressed  this  arm  close  against*  his  body,  feel- 
ing at  once  the  stimulus  of  contact.  Nobody  could  see 
them;  their  footsteps  resounded  on  the  pavements  with 


200  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  echo  of  an  abandoned  place.  The  fermented  ardor 
of  those  libations  to  the  gods  was  giving  the  captain  a 
new  audacity. 

"My  poor  little  darling!  .  .  .  Dear  little  crazy-head! 
..."  he  murmured,  drawing  closer  to  him  Freya's 
head  which  was  resting  on  one  of  his  shoulders. 

He  kissed  her  without  her  making  any  resistance. 
And  she  in  turn  kissed  him,  but  with  a  sad,  light,  faint- 
hearted kiss  that  in  no  way  recalled  the  hysterical  caress 
of  the  Aquarium.  Her  voice,  which  appeared  to  be 
coming  from  afar  off,  was  repeating  what  she  had  coun- 
seled him  in  the  trattoria. 

"Begone,  Ulysses!  Do  not  see  me  any  more.  I  tell 
you  this  for  your  own  good.  ...  I  bring  trouble.  I 
should  be  sorry  to  have  you  curse  the  moment  in  which 
you  met  me." 

The  sailor  took  advantage  of  all  the  windings  of  the 
streets  in  order  to  cut  these  recommendations  short 
with  his  kisses.  She  advanced  limply  as  though  towed 
by  him  with  no  will  power  of  her  own,  as  though  she 
were  walking  in  her  sleep.  A  voice  was  singing  with 
diabolic  satisfaction  in  the  captain's  brain: 

"Now  it  is  ripe !  .  .  .  Now  it  is  ripe !  .  .  ." 

And  he  continued  pulling  her  along  always  ifi  a  direct 
line,  not  knowing  whither  he  was  going,  but  sure  of  his 
triumph. 

Near  the  station  an  old  man  approached  the  pair, — a 
white-haired,  respectable  gentleman  with  an  old  jacket 
and  spectacles.  He  gave  them  the  card  of  a  hotel 
which  he  owned  in  the  neighborhood,  boasting  of  the 
good  qualities  of  its  rooms.  "Every  modern  comfort. 
.  .  .  Hot  water."  Ferragut  spoke  to  her  familiarly: 

"Would  you  like?  .  .  .  Would  you  like? 

She  appeared  to  wake  up,  dropping  his  arm  brusquely. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  201 

"Don't  be  crazy,  Ulysses.  .  .  .  That  will  never  be. 
.  .  .  Never!" 

And  drawing  herself  up  magnificently,  she  entered  the 
station  with  a  haughty  step,  without  looking  around, 
without  noticing  whether  Ferragut  was  following  her 
or  abandoning  her. 

During  the  long  wait  and  the  descent  to  the  city  Freya 
appeared  as  ironical  and  frivolous  as  though  she  had 
no  recollection  of  her  recent  indignation.  The  sailor,, 
under  the  weight  of  his  failure  and  the  unusual  libations,, 
relapsed  into  sulky  silence. 

In  the  district  of  Chiaja  they  separated.  Ferragut, 
finding  himself  alone,  felt  more  strongly  than  ever  the 
effects  of  the  intoxication  that  was  dominating  him, 
the  intoxication  of  a  temperate  man  overcome  by  the 
intense  surprise  of  novelty. 

For  a  moment  he  had  a  forlorn  idea  of  going  to  his 
boat.  He  needed  to  give  orders,  to  contend  with  some- 
body; but  the  weakness  of  his  knees  pushed  him  toward 
his  hotel  and  he  flung  himself  face  downward  on  the 
bed, — whilst  his  hat  rolled  on  the  floor, — content  with 
the  sobriety  with  which  he  had  reached  his  room  without 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  servants. 

He  fell  asleep  immediately,  but  scarcely  had  night 
fallen  before  his  eyes  opened  again,  or  at  least  he  be- 
lieved that  they  opened,  seeing  everything  under  a  light 
which  was  not  that  of  the  sun. 

Some  one  had  entered  the  room,  and  was  coming  on 
tiptoe  towards  his  bed.  Ulysses,  who  was  not  able  to 
move,  saw  out  of  the  tail  of  one  eye  that  what  was  ap- 
proaching was  a  woman  and  that  this  woman  appeared 
to  be  Freya.  Was  it  really  she?  .  .  . 

She  had  the  same  countenance,  the  blonde  hair,  the 
black  and  oriental  eyes,  the  same  oval  face.  It  was 
Freya  and  it  was  not,  just  as  twins  Exactly  alike  physi- 


202  MARE  NOSTRUM 

cally,  nevertheless  have  an  indefinable  something  which 
differentiates  them. 

The  vague  thoughts  which  for  some  time  past  had  been 
slowly  undermining  his  subconsciousness  with  dull,  sub- 
terranean labor,  now  cleared  the  air  with  explosive  force. 
Whenever  he  had  seen  the  widow  this  subconsciousness 
had  asserted  itself,  forewarning  him  that  he  had  known 
her  long  before  that  transatlantic  voyage.  Now,  under 
a  light  of  fantastic  splendor,  these  vague  thoughts  as- 
sumed definite  shape. 

The  sleeper  thought  he  was  looking  at  Freya  clad  in 
a  bodice  with  flowing  sleeves  adjusted  to  the  arms  with 
filagree  buttons  of  gold;  some  rather  barbarous  gems 
were  adorning  her  bosom  and  ears,  and  a  flowered  skirt 
was  covering  the  rest  of  her  person.  It  was  the  classic 
costume  of  a  farmer's  wife  or  daughter  of  other  cen- 
turies that  he  had  seen  somewhere  in  a  painting. 
Where?  .  .  .  Where?  .  .  . 

"Dona  Constanza !  .  .  ." 

Freya  was  the  counterpart  of  that  august  Byzantian 
queen.  Perhaps  she  was  the  very  same,  perpetuated 
across  the  centuries,  through  extraordinary  incarnations. 
In  that  moment  Ulysses  would  have  believed  anything 
possible. 

Besides  he  was  very  little  concerned  with  the  reason- 
ableness of  things  just  now;  the  important  thing  to  him 
was  that  they  should  exist;  and  Freya  was  at  his  side; 
Freya  and  that  other  one,  welded  into  one  and  the  same 
woman,  clad  like  the  Grecian  sovereign. 

Again  he  repeated  the  sweet  name  that  had  illuminated 
his  infancy  with  romantic  splendor.  "Dona  Constanza! 
Oh,  Dona  Constanza!  .  .  ."  And  night  overwhelmed 
him,  cuddling  his  pillow  as  when  he  was  a  child,  and 
falling  asleep  enraptured  with  thoughts  of  the  young 
widow  of  "Vatacio  the  Heretic." 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  203 

When  he  met  Freya  again  the  next  day,  he  felt  at- 
tracted by  a  new  force, — the  redoubled  interest  that  peo- 
ple in  dreams  inspire.  She  might  really  be  the  empress 
resuscitated  in  a  new  form  as  in  the  books  of  chivalry, 
or  she  might  simply  be  the  wandering  widow  of  a  learned 
sage, — for  the  sailor  it  was  all  the  same  thing.  He 
desired  her,  and  to  his  carnal  desire  was  added  others 
less  material, — the  necessity  of  seeing  her  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  seeing  her,  of  hearing  her,  of  suffering  her 
negatives,  of  being  repelled  in  all  his  advances. 

She  had  pleasant  memories  of  the  expedition  to  the 
heights  of  S.  Martino. 

"You  must  have  thought  me  ridiculous  because  of  my 
sensitiveness  and  my  tears.  You,  on  the  other  hand, 
were  as  you  always  are,  impetuous  and  daring.  .  .  . 
The  next  time  we  shall  drink  less." 

The  "next  time"  was  an  invitation  that  Ferragut  re- 
peated daily.  He  wanted  to  take  her  to  dine  at  one  of 
the  trattorias  on  the  road  to  Posilipo  where  they  could 
see  spread  at  their  feet  the  entire  gulf,  colored  with  rose 
by  the  setting  sun. 

Freya  had  accepted  his  invitation  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  a  school  girl.  These  strolls  represented  for  her  hours 
of  joy  and  liberty,  as  though  her  long  sojourns  with  the 
doctor  were  rilled  with  monotonous  service. 

One  evening  Ulysses  was  waiting  for  her  far  from  the 
hotel  so  as  to  avoid  the  porter's  curious  stares.  As  soon 
as  they  met  and  glanced  toward  the  neighboring  cab- 
stand, four  vehicles  advanced  at  the  same  time — like  a 
row  of  Roman  chariots  anxious  to  win  the  prize  in  the 
circus — with  a  noisy  clattering  of  hoofs,  cracking  of 
whips,  wrathful  gesticulations  and  threatening  appeals  to 
the  Madonna.  Listening  to  their  Neapolitan  curses, 
Ferragut  believed  for  an  instant  that  they  were  going 
to  kill  one  another.  ,  ,  The  two  climbed  into  the  near- 


204  MARE  NOSTRUM 

est  vehicle,  and  immediately  the  tumult  ceased.  The 
empty  coaches  returned  to  occupy  their  former  places 
in  the  line,  and  the  deadly  rivals  renewed  their  placid 
and  laughing  conversation. 

An  enormous  upright  plume  was  waving  on  their 
horses'  heads.  The  cabman,  in  order  not  to  be  discourte- 
ous to  his  two  clients,  would  occasionally  turn  half-way 
around,  giving  them  explanations. 

"Over  there,"  and  he  pointed  with  his  whip,  "is  the 
road  of  Piedigrotta.  The  gentleman  ought  to  see  it  on  a 
day  of  fiesta  in  September.  Few  return  from  it  with  a 
firm  step.  S.  Maria  di  Piedigrotta  enabled  Charles  III  to 
put  the  Austrians  to  flight  in  Velletri.  .  .  .  Aooo!" 

He  moved  his  whip  like  a  fishing  rod  over  the  upright 
plume,  increasing  the  steed's  pace  with  a  professional 
howl.  .  .  .  And  as  though  his  cry  were  among  the  sweet- 
est of  melodies,  he  continued  talking,  by  association  of 
ideas : 

"At  the  fiesta  of  Piedigrotta,  when  I  was  a  boy,  were 
given  out  the  best  songs  of  the  year.  There  was  pro- 
claimed the  latest  fashionable  love  song,  and  long  after 
we  had  forgotten  it  foreigners  would  come  here  repeat- 
ing it  as  though  it  was  a  novelty." 

He  made  a  short  pause. 

"If  the  lady  and  gentleman  wish,"  he  continued,  "I  will 
take  them,  on  returning,  to  Piedigrotta.  Then  we'll  see 
the  little  church  of  S.  V  It  ale.  Many  foreign  ladies  hunt 
for  it  in  order  to  put  flowers  on  the  sepulcher  of  a  hunch- 
back who  made  verses, — Giacomo  Leopardi." 

The  silence  with  which  his  two  clients  received  these 
explanations  made  him  abandon  his  mechanical  oratory 
in  order  to  take  a  good  look  at  them.  The  gentleman 
was  taking  the  lady's  hand  and  was  pressing  it,  speak- 
ing in  a  very  low  tone.  The  lady  was  pretending  not 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  205 

to  listen  to  him,  looking*  at  the  villas  and  the  gardens 
at  the  left  of  the  road  sloping  down  toward  the  sea. 

With  noble  magnanimity,  however,  the  driver  still 
wished  to  instruct  his  indifferent  clients,  showing  them 
with  the  point  of  his  whip  the  beauty  and  wonders  of  his 
repertoire. 

"That  church  is  S.  Maria  del  Parto,  sometimes  called 
by  others  the  Sannazaro.  Sannazaro  was  also  a  noted 
poet  who  described  the  loves  of  shepherdesses,  and  Fred- 
erick II  of  Aragon  made  him  the  gift  of  a  villa  with 
gardens  in  order  that  he  might  write  with  greater  com- 
fort. .  .  .  Those  were  other  days,  sir!  His  heirs  con- 
verted it  into  a  church  and " 

The  voice  of  the  coachman  stopped  short.  Behind 
him  the  pair  were  talking  in  an  incomprehensible  lan- 
guage, without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  him, 
without  acknowledging  his  erudite  explanations.  Ig- 
norant foreigners !  .  .  .  And  he  said  no  more,  wrapping 
himself  in  offended  silence,  relieving  his  Neapolitan 
verbosity  with  a  series  of  shouts  and  grunts  to  his 
horse. 

The  new  road  from  Posilipo,  the  work  of  Murat, 
skirted  the  gulf,  rising  along  the  mountain  edge  and 
constantly  emphasizing  the  declivity  between  the  cover- 
ing of  its  feet  and  the  border  of  the  sea.  On  this  hang- 
ing slope  may  be  seen  villas  with  white  or  rosy  fagades 
midst  the  splendor  of  a  vegetation  that  is  always  green 
and  glossy.  Beyond  the  colonnades  of  palm  trees  and 
parasol  pines,  appeared  the  gulf  like  a  blue  curtain,  its 
upper  edge  showing  above  the  murmuring  tops  of  the 
trees. 

An  enormous  edifice  appeared  facing  the  water.  It 
was  a  palace  in  ruins,  or  rather  a  roofless  palace  never 
finished,  with  thick  walls  and  huge^  windows.  On  the 
lower  floor  the  waves  entered  gently  through  doors  and 


2o6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

windows  which  served  as  rooms  of  refuge  for  the 
fishermen's  skiffs. 

The  two  travelers  were  undoubtedly  talking  about  this 
ruin,  and  the  forgiving  coachman  forgot  his  snub  in 
order  to  come  to  their  aid. 

"That  is  what  many  people  call  the  Palace  of  Queen 
Joanna.  ...  A  mistake,  sir.  Ignorance  of  the  un- 
educated people!  That  is  the  Palazzo  di  Donn'  Anna, 
and  Donna  Anna  Carafa  was  a  great  Neapolitan  signora, 
wife  of  the  Duke  of  Medina,  the  Spanish  viceroy  who 
constructed  the  palace  for  her  and  was  not  able  to 
finish  it."  .  .  . 

He  was  about  to  say  more  but  stopped  himself.  Ah, 
no!  By  the  Madonna!  .  .  .  Again  they  had  begun  to 
talk,  without  listening  to  him.  .  .  .  And  he  finally  took 
refuge  in  offended  silence,  while  they  chattered  contin- 
ually behind  his  back. 

Ferragut  felt  an  interest  in  the  remote  love-affairs 
of  the  Neapolitan  great  lady  with  the  prudent  and  aris- 
tocratic Spanish  magnate.  His  passion  had  made  the 
grave  viceroy  commit  the  folly  of  constructing  a  palace 
in  the  sea.  The  sailor  was  also  in  love  with  a  woman 
of  another  race  and  felt  equal  desires  to  do  whimsical 
things  for  her. 

"I  have  read  the  mandates  of  Nietzsche,"  he  said  to 
her,  by  way  of  explaining  his  enthusiasm, — "  'seek  thy 
wife  outside  thy  country/  That  is  the  best  thing." 

Freya  smiled  sadly. 

"Who  knows?  .  .  .  That  would  complicate  love  with 
the  prejudices  of  national  antagonism.  That  would 
create  children  with  a  double  country  who  would  end 
by  belonging  to  none,  who  would  wander  through  the 
world  like  mendicants  with  no  place  of  refuge.  ...  I 
know  something  about  that." 

And  again  she  smiled  with  sadness  and  skepticism. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  207 

Ferragut  was  reading  the  signs  of  the  trattorias  on 
both  sides  of  the  highway:  "The  Ledge  of  the  Siren," 
"The  Joy  of  Parthenope,"  "The  Ouster  of  Flowers." 
.  .  .  And  meanwhile  he  was  squeezing  Freya's  hand, 
putting  his  fingers  upon  the  inner  side  of  her  wrist  and 
caressing  her  skin  that  trembled  at  every  touch. 

The  coachman  let  the  horse  slowly  ascend  the  con- 
tinuous ascent  of  Posilipo.  He  was  now  concerned  in 
not  turning  around  and  not  being  troublesome.  He 
knew  well  what  they  were  talking  about  behind  him. 
"Lovers, — people  who  do  not  wish  to  arrive  too  soon!" 
And  he  forgot  to  be  offended,  gloating  over  the  prob- 
able generosity  of  a  gentleman  in  such  good  company. 

Ulysses  made  him  stop  on  the  heights  of  Posilipo.  It 
was  there  where  he  had  eaten  a  famous  "sailor's  soup," 
and  where  they  sold  the  best  oysters  from  Fusaro.  At 
the  right  of  the  road,  there  arose  a  pretentious  and  mod- 
ern edifice  with  the  name  of  a  restaurant  in  letters  of 
gold.  On  the  opposite  side  was  the  annex,  a  terraced 
garden  that  slipped  away  down  to  the  sea,  and  on  these 
terraces  were  tables  in  the  open  air  or  little  low  roofed 
cottages  whose  walls  were  covered  with  climbing  vines. 
These  latter  constr :ct;  Dns  had  discreet  windows  opening 
upon  the  gulf  at  i  great  height  thus  forestalling  any  out- 
side curiosity. 

Upon  receiving  Ferragut's  generous  tip,  the  coachman 
greeted  him  with  a  sly  smile,  that  confidential  gesture 
of  comradeship  which  passes  down  through  all  the  social 
strata,  uniting  them  as  simple  men.  He  had  brought 
many  folk  to  this  discreet  garden  with  its  locked  dining- 
rooms  overlooking  the  gulf.  "A  good  appetite  to  you, 
Signore!" 

The  old  waiter  who  came  to  meet  them  on  the  little 
sloping  footpath  made  the  identical  .grimace  as  soon  as 
he  spied  Ferragut.  "I  have  whatever  the  gentleman 


208  MARE  NOSTRUM 

may  need."  And  crossing  a  low,  embowered  terrace  witH 
various  unoccupied  tables,  he  opened  a  door  and  bade 
them  enter  a  room  having  only  one  window. 

Freya  went  instinctively  toward  it  like  an  insect  toward 
the  light,  leaving  behind  her  the  damp  and  gloomy  room 
whose  paper  was  hanging  loose  at  intervals.  "How  beau- 
tiful 1"  The  gulf  pictured  through  the  window  appeared 
like  an  unframed  canvas, — the  original,  alive  and  palpi- 
tating,— of  the  infinite  copies  throughout  the  world. 

Meanwhile  the  captain,  while  informing  himself  of 
the  available  dishes,  was  secretly  following  the  discreet 
sign  language  of  the  waiter.  With  one  hand  he 
was  holding  the  door  half  open,  his  fingers  fumbling 
with  an  enormous  archaic  bolt  on  the  under  side  which 
had  belonged  to  a  much  larger  door  and  looked  as  though 
it  were  going  to  fall  from  the  wood  because  of  its  ex- 
cessive size.  .  .  .  Ferragut  surmised  that  this  bolt  was 
going  to  count  heavily,  with  all  its  weight,  in  the  bill 
for  dinner. 

Freya  interrupted  her  contemplation  of  the  panorama 
on  feeling  Ferragut's  lips  trying  to  caress  her  neck. 

"None  of  that,  Captain!  .  .  .  You  know  well  enough 
what  we  have  agreed.  Remember  that  I  have  accepted 
your  invitation  on  the  condition  that  you  leave  me  in 
peace." 

She  permitted  his  kiss  to  pass  across  her  cheek,  even 
Teaching  her  mouth.  This  caress  was  already  an  accepted 
thing.  As  it  had  the  force  of  custom,  she  did  not  resist 
it,  remembering  the  preceding  ones,  but  fear  of  his  abus- 
ing it  made  her  withdraw  from  the  window. 

"Let  us  examine  the  enchanted  palace  which  my  true 
love  has  promised  me,"  she  said  gayly  in  order  to  distract 
Ulysses  from  his  insistence. 

In  the  center  there  was  a  table  made  of  planks  badly 
planed  and  with  rough  legs.  The  covers  and  the  dishes 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  209 

would  hide  this  horror.  Passing  her  eyes  scrutinizingly 
over  the  old  seats,  the  walls  with  their  loose  papering 
and  the  chromos  in  greenish  frames,  she  spied  something 
dark,  rectangular  and  deep  occupying  one  corner  of  the 
room.  She  did  not  know  whether  it  was  a  divan,  a  bed 
or  a  funeral  catafalque.  The  shabby  covers  that  were 
spread  over  it  reminded  one  of  the  beds  of  the  barracks 
or  of  the  prison. 

"Ah,  no !  .  .  /'  Freya  made  one  bound  toward  the  door. 
She  would  never  be  able  to  eat  beside  that  filthy  piece 
of  furniture  which  had  come  from  the  scum  of  Naples. 
"Ah,  no!  How  loathesome!" 

Ulysses  was  standing  near  the  door,  fearing  that 
Freya's  discoveries  might  go  further,  and  hiding  with 
his  back  that  bolt  which  was  the  waiter's  pride.  He 
stammered  excuses  but  she  mistook  his  insistence,  think- 
ing that  he  was  trying  to  lock  her  in. 

"Captain,  let  me  pass!"  she  said  in  an  angry  voice. 
"You  do  not  know  me.  That  kind  of  thing  is  for 
others.  .  .  .  Back,  if  you  do  not  wish  me  to  consider 
you  the  lowest  kind  of  fellow.  .  .  ." 

And  she  pushed  him  as  she  went  out,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  Ulysses  was  letting  her  pass  freely,  reiterating 
his  excuses  and  laying  all  the  responsibility  on  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  servant. 

She  stopped  under  the  arbor,  suddenly  tranquillized 
upon  finding  herself  with  her  back  to  the  room. 

"What  a  den!"  .  .  .  she  said.  "Come  over  here, 
Ferragut.  We  shall  be  much  more  comfortable  in  the 
open  air  looking  at  the  gulf.  Come,  now,  and  don't  be 
babyish !  .  .  .  All  is  forgotten.  You  were  not  to  blame." 

The  old  waiter,  who  was  returning  with  table-covers 
and  dishes,  did  not  betray  the  slightest  astonishment  at 
seeing  the  pair  installed  on  the  terrace.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  these  surprises  and  evaded  the  lady's  eye  like 


2io  MARE  NOSTRUM 

a  convicted  criminal,  looking  at  the  gentleman  with  the 
forlorn  air  which  he  always  employed  when  announcing 
that  there  was  no  more  of  some  dish  on  the  bill  of  fare. 
His  gestures  of  quiet  protection  were  trying  to  console 
Ferragut  for  his  failure.  "Patience  and  tenacity!"  .  .  . 
He  had  seen  much  greater  difficulties  overcome  by  his 
clientele. 

Before  serving  dinner  he  placed  upon  the  table,  in 
the  guise  of  an  aperitive,  a  fat-bellied  bottle  of  native 
wine,  a  nectar  from  the  slopes  of  Vesuvius  with  a  slight 
taste  of  sulphur.  Freya  was  thirsty  and  was  .suspicious 
of  the  water  of  the  trattoria.  Ulysses  must  forget  his 
recent  mortification.  .  .  .  And  the  two  made  their  liba- 
tions to  the  gods,  with  an  unmixed  drink  in  which  not 
a  drop  of  water  cut  the  jeweled  transparency  of  the 
precious  wine. 

A  group  of  singers  and  dancers  now  invaded  the  ter- 
race. A  coppery-hued  girl,  handsome  and  dirty,  with 
wavy  hair,  great  gold  hoops  in  her  ears  and  an  apron 
of  many  colored  stripes,  was  dancing  under  the  arbor, 
waving  on  high  a  tambourine  that  was  almost  the  size 
of  a  parasol.  Two  bow-legged  youngsters,  dressed 
like  ancient  lazzarones  in  red  caps,  were  accompanying 
with  shouts  the  agitated  dance  of  the  tarantella. 

The  gulf  was  taking  on  a  pinkish  light  under  the 
oblique  rays  of  the  sun,  as  though  there  were  growing 
within  it  immense  groves  of  coral.  The  blue  of  the  sky 
had  also  turned  rosy  and  the  mountain  seemed  aflame 
in  the  afterglow.  The  plume  of  Vesuvius  was  less  white 
than  in  the  morning;  its  nebulous  column,  streaked  with 
reddish  flutings  by  the  dying  light,  appeared  to  be  re- 
flecting its  interior  fire. 

Ulysses  felt  the  friendly  placidity  that  a  landscape 
contemplated  in  childhood  always  inspires.  Many  a 
time  he  had  seen  this  same  panorama  with  its  dancing 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  211 

girls  and  its  volcano  there  in  his  old  home  at  Valencia; 
he  had  seen  it  on  the  fans  called  "Roman  Style"  that 
his  father  used  to  collect. 

Freya  felt  as  moved  as  her  companion.  The  blue  of 
the  gulf  was  of  an  extreme  intensity  in  the  parts  not 
reflected  by  the  sun;  the  coast  appeared  of  ochre;  al- 
though the  houses  had  tawdry  fagades,  all  these  dis- 
cordant elements  were  now  blended  and  interfused  in 
subdued  and  exquisite  harmony.  The  shrubbery  was 
trembling  rhythmically  under  the  breeze.  The  very  air 
was  musical,  as  though  in  its  waves  were  vibrating  the 
strings  of  invisible  harps. 

This  was  for  Freya  the  true  Greece  imagined  by  the 
poets,  not  the  island  of  burned-out  rocks  denuded  of 
vegetation  that  she  had  seen  and  heard  spoken  of  in 
her  excursions  through  the  Hellenic  archipelago. 

"To  live  here  the  rest  of  my  life!"  she  murmured 
with  misty  eyes.  "To  die  here,  forgotten,  alone, 
happy!  ..." 

Ferragut  also  would  like  to  die  in  Naples  .  .  .  but 
with  her !  .  .  .  And  his  quick  and  exuberant  imagination 
described  the  delights  of  life  for  the  two, — a  life  of  love 
and  mystery  in  some  one  of  the  little  villas,  with  a  gar- 
den peeping  out  over  the  sea  on  the  slopes  of  Posilipo. 

The  dancers  had  passed  down  to  the  lower  terrace 
where  the  crowd  was  greater.  New  customers  were 
entering,  almost  all  in  pairs,  as  the  day  was  fading. 
The  waiter  had  ushered  some  highly-painted  women  with 
enormous  hats,  followed  by  some  young  men,  into  the 
locked  dining-room.  Through  the  half-open  door  came 
the  noise  of  pursuit,  collision  and  rebound  with  brutal 
roars  of  laughter. 

Freya  turned  her  back,  as  if  the  memory  of  her  pas- 
sage through  that  den  offended  her. 

The  old  waiter  now  devoted  himself  to  them,  beginning 


212  MARE  NOSTRUM 

to  serve  dinner.  To  the  bottle  of  Vesuvian  wine  had  suc- 
ceeded another  kind,  gradually  losing  its  contents. 

The  two  ate  little  but  felt  a  nervous  thirst  which  made 
them  frequenly  reach  out  their  hands  toward  the  glass. 
The  wine  was  depressing  to  Freya.  The  sweetness  of 
the  twilight  seemed  to  make  it  ferment,  giving  it  the 
acrid  perfume  of  sad  memories. 

The  sailor  felt  arising  within  him  the  aggressive  fever 
of  temperate  men  when  becoming  intoxicated.  Had  he 
been  with  a  man  he  would  have  started  a  violent  dis- 
cussion on  any  pretext  whatever.  He  did  not  relish  the 
oysters,  the  sailor's  soup,  the  lobster,  everything  that 
another  time,  eaten  alone  or  with  a  passing  friend  in  the 
same  site,  would  have  appeared  to  him  as  delicacies. 

He  was  looking  at  Freya  with  enigmatical  eyes  while, 
in  his  thought,  wrath  was  beginning  to  bubble.  He  almost 
hated  her  on  recalling  the  arrogance  with  which  she  had 
treated  him,  fleeing  from  that  room.  "Hypocrite  I  ..." 
She  was  just  amusing  herself  with  him.  She  was  a 
playful  and  ferocious  cat  prolonging  the  death-agony 
of  the  mouse  caught  in  her  claws.  In  his  brain  a  brutal 
voice  was  saying,  as  though  counseling  a  murder :  "This 
will  be  her  last  day !  ...  I'll  finish  her  to-day !  ...  No 
more  after  to-day!  .  .  ."  After  several  repetitions,  he 
was  disposed  to  the  greatest  violence  in  order  to  extri- 
cate himself  from  a  situation  which  he  thought  ridic- 
ulous. 

And  she,  ignorant  of  her  companion's  thought,  de- 
ceived by  the  impassiveness  of  his  countenance,  con- 
tinued chatting  with  her  glance  fixed  on  the  horizon, 
talking  in  an  undertone  as  though  she  were  recounting 
to  herself  her  illusions. 

The  momentary  suggestion  of  living  in  a  cottage  of 
Posilipo,  completely  alone,  an  existence  of  monastic  isola- 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  213 

tion  with  all  the  conveniences  of  modern  life,  was  domi- 
nating her  like  an  obsession. 

"And  yet,  after  all,"  she  continued,  "this  atmosphere  is 
not  favorable  to  solitude;  this  landscape  is  for  love.  To 
grow  old  slowly,  two  who  love  each  other,  before  the 
eternal  beauty  of  the  gulf !  .  .  .  What  a  pity  that  I  have 
never  been  really  loved!  .  .  ." 

This  was  an  offense  against  Ulysses  who  expressed 
his  annoyance  with  all  the  aggressiveness  that  was  seeth- 
ing beneath  his  bad  humor.  How  about  him  ?  .  .  .  Was 
he  not  loving  her  and  disposed  to  prove  it  to  her  by  all 
manner  of  sacrifices?  .  .  . 

Sacrifices  as  proof  of  love  always  left  this  woman 
cold,  accepting  them  with  a  skeptical  gesture. 

"All  men  have  told  me  the  same  thing,"  she  added; 
"they  all  promise  to  kill  themselves  if  I  do  not  love 
them.  .  .  .  And  with  the  most  of  them  it  is  nothing 
more  than  a  phrase  of  passionate  rhetoric.  And  what 
if  they  did  kill  themselves  really  ?  What  does  that  prove  ? 
...  To  leave  life  on  the  spur  of  a  moment  that  gives  no 
opportunity  for  repentance; — a  simple  nervous  flash,  a 
posture  many  times  assumed  simply  for  what  people  will 
say,  with  the  frivolous  pride  of  an  actor  who  likes  to 
pose  in  graceful  attitudes.  I  know  what  all  that  means. 
A  man  once  killed  himself  for  me.  .  .  ." 

On  hearing  these  last  words  Ferragut  jerked  himself 
out  of  his  sullen  silence.  A  malicious  voice  was  chant- 
ing in  his  brain,  "Now  there  are  three  1  ..." 

"I  saw  him  dying,"  she  continued,  "on  a  bed  of  the 
hotel.  He  had  a  red  spot  like  a  star  on  the  bandage 
of  his  forehead, — the  hole  of  the  pistol  shot.  He  died 
clutching  my  hands,  swearing  that  he  loved  me  and  that 
he  had  killed  himself  for  me  ...  a  tiresome,  horrible 
scene.  .  .  .  And  nevertheless  I  am  sure  that  he  was  de- 
ceiving himself,  that  he  did  not  love  me.  He  killed  him- 


214  MARE  NOSTRUM 

self  through  wounded  vanity  on  seeing  that  I  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him, — just  for  stubbornness,  for 
theatrical  effect,  influenced  by  his  readings.  ...  He  was 
a  Roumanian  tenor.  That  was  in  Russia.  ...  I  have 
been  an  actress  a  part  of  my  life.  .  .  ." 

The  sailor  wished  to  express  the  astonishment  that  the 
different  changes  of  this  mysterious  wandering  existence, 
always  showing  a  new  facet,  were  producing  in  him ;  but 
he  contained  himself  in  order  to  listen  better  to  the  cruel 
counsels  of  the  malignant  voice  speaking  within  his 
thoughts.  .  .  .  He  was  not  trying  to  kill  himself 
for  her.  Quite  the  contrary !  His  moody  aggressiveness 
was  considering  her  as  the  next  victim.  There  was  in 
his  eyes  something  of  the  dead  Triton  when  in  pursuit 
of  a  distant  woman's  skirt  on  the  coast. 

Freya  continued  speaking. 

"To  kill  one's  self  is  not  a  proof  of  love.  They  all 
promise  me  the  sacrifice  of  their  existence  from  the  very 
first  words.  Men  don't  know  any  other  song.  Don't 
imitate  them,  Captain/' 

She  remained  pensive  a  long  time.  Twilight  was 
rapidly  falling;  half  the  sky  was  of  amber  and  the 
other  half  of  a  midnight  blue  in  which  the  first  stars 
were  beginning  to  twinkle.  The  gulf  was  drowsing 
under  the  leaden  coverlet  of  its  water,  exhaling  a  mys- 
terious freshness  that  was  spreading  to  the  mountains 
and  trees.  All  the  landscape  appeared  to  be  acquiring 
the  fragility  of  crystal.  The  silent  air  was  trembling 
with  exaggerated  resonance,  repeating  the  fall  of  an  oar 
in  the  boats  that,  small  as  flies,  were  slipping  along  under 
the  sky  arching  above  the  gulf,  and  prolonging  the  femi- 
nine and  invisible  voices  passing  through  the  groves  on 
the  heights. 

The  waiter  went  from  table  to  table,  distributing  can- 
dles enclosed  in  paper  shades.  The  mosquitoes  and  moths, 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  215 

revived  by  the  twilight,  were  buzzing  around  these  red 
and  yellow  flowers  of  light. 

Her  voice  was  again  sounding  in  the  twilight  air  with 
the  vagueness  of  one  speaking  in  a  dream. 

"There  is  a  sacrifice  greater  than  that  of  life, — the  only 
one  that  can  convince  a  woman  that  she  is  beloved. 
What  does  life  signify  to  a  man  like  you?  .  .  .  Your 
profession  puts  it  in  danger  every  day  and  I  believe  you 
capable  of  risking  your  life,  when  tired  of  land,  for  the 
slightest  motive.  .  .  ." 

She  paused  again  and  then  continued. 

"Honor  is  worth  more  than  life  for  certain  men, — 
respectability,  the  preservation  of  the  place  that  they 
occupy.  Only  the  man  that  would  risk  his  honor  and 
position  for  me,  who  would  descend  to  the  lowest  depths 
without  losing  his  will  to  live,  would  ever  be  able  to 
convince  me.  .  .  .  That  indeed  would  be  a  sacrifice!" 

Ferragut  felt  alarmed  at  such  words.  What  kind  of 
sacrifice  was  this  woman  about  to  propose  to  him?  .  .  . 
But  he  grew  calmer  as  he  listened  to  her.  It  was  all  a 
fancy  of  her  disordered  imagination.  "She  is  crazy" 
again  affirmed  the  hidden  counselor  in  his  brain. 

"I  have  dreamed  many  times,"  she  continued,  "of  a 
man  who  would  rob  for  me,  who  would  kill  if  it  was 
necessary  and  might  have  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  years 
in  prison.  .  .  .  My  poor  thief!  ...  I  would  live 
only  for  him,  spending  night  and  day  near  the  walls  of 
his  prison,  looking  through  the  bars,  working  like  a 
woman  of  the  village  in  order  to  send  a  good  dinner  to 
my  outlaw.  .  .  .  That  is  genuine  love  and  not  the  cold 
lies,  the  theatrical  vows  of  our  world." 

Ulysses  repeated  his  mental  comment,  "She  certainly  is 
crazy" — and  his  thought  was  so  clearly  reflected  in  his 
eyes  that  she  guessed  it. 

"Don't  be  afraid,   Ferragut,"   she   said,   smiling.     "I 


216  MARE  NOSTRUM 

have  no  thought  of  exacting  such  a  sacrifice  of  you. 
All  this  that  I  am  talking  about  is  merely  fancy,  a 
whimsy  invented  to  fill  the  vacancy  of  my  soul.  Tis 
the  fault  of  the  wine,  of  our  exaggerated  libations, — that 
to-day  have  been  without  water, — to  the  gods.  .  .  .  Just 
look!" 

And  she  pointed  with  comical  gravity  to  the  Iwo 
empty  bottles  that  were  occupying  the  center  of  the 
table. 

Night  had  fallen.  In  the  dark  sky  twinkled  infinite 
eyes  of  starry  light.  The  immense  bowl  of  the  gulf 
was  reflecting  their  sparkles  like  thousands  of  will  o' 
the  wisps.  The  candle  shades  in  the  restaurant  were 
throwing  purplish  spots  upon  the  table  covers,  casting 
upon  the  faces  of  those  who  were  eating  around  them 
violent  contrasts  of  light  and  shade.  From  the  locked 
rooms  were  escaping  sounds  of  kisses,  pursuit  and  fall- 
ing furniture. 

"Let  us  go!"  ordered  Freya. 

The  noise  of  this  vulgar  orgy  was  annoying  her  as 
though  it  were  dishonoring  the  majesty  of  the  night. 
She  needed  to  move  about,  to  walk  in  the  darkness,  to 
breathe  in  the  freshness  of  the  mysterious  shade. 

At  the  garden  gate  they  hesitated  before  the  appeals  of 
various  coachmen.  Freya  was  the  one  who  refused  their 
offers.  She  wished  to  return  to  Naples  on  foot,  fol- 
lowing the  easy  descent  of  the  road  of  Posilipo  after 
their  long  inaction  in  the  restaurant.  Her  face  was 
warm  and  flushed  because  of  the  excess  of  wine. 

Ulysses  gave  her  his  arm  and  they  began  to  move 
through  the  shadows,  insensibly  impelled  in  their  march 
by  the  ease  of  the  downward  slope.  Freya  knew  just 
what  this  trip  would  mean.  At  the  very  first  step  the 
sailor  advised  her  with  a  kiss  on  the  neck.  He  was 
going  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  windings  of  the  road, 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  217 

of  the  hills  and  terraces  cut  through  in  certain  places 
to  show  the  phosphorescent  gulf  across  the  foliage,  and 
of  the  long  shadowy  stretch  broken  only  now  and  then 
by  the  public  echoes  or  the  lanterns  of  carriages  and 
tramways.  .  .  . 

But  these  liberties  were  already  an  accepted  thing. 
She  had  taken  the  first  step  in  the  Aquarium:  besides, 
she  was  sure  of  her  ability  to  keep  her  lover  at  what- 
ever distance  she  might  choose  to  fix.  .  .  .  And  con- 
vinced of  her  power  of  checking  herself  in  time,  she  gave 
herself  up  like  a  lost  woman. 

Never  had  Ferragut  had  such  a  propitious  occasion. 
It  was  a  trysting-place  in  the  mystery  of  the  night  with 
plenty  of  time  ahead  of  them.  The  only  trouble  was  the 
necessity  of  walking  on,  of  accompanying  his  embraces 
and  protests  of  love  with  the  incessant  activity  of  walk- 
ing. She  protested,  coming  out  from  her  rapture  every 
time  that  the  enamored  man  would  propose  that  they 
sit  down  on  the  side  of  the  road. 

Hope  made  Ulysses  very  obedient  to  Freya,  desirous 
of  reaching  Naples  as  soon  as  possible.  Down  there  in 
the  curve  of  the  light  near  the  gulf  was  the  hotel,  and 
the  sailor  looked  upon  it  as  a  place  of  happiness. 

"Say  yes,"  he  murmured  in  her  ear,  punctuating  his 
words  with  kisses,  "say  that  it  will  be  to-night !  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  reply,  leaning  on  the  arm  that  the  cap- 
tain had  passed  around  her  waist,  letting  herself  be 
dragged  along  as  if  she  were  half-fainting,  rolling  her 
eyes  and  offering  her  lips. 

While  Ulysses  was  repeating  his  pleadings  and  caresses 
the  voice  in  his  brain  was  chanting  victoriously,  "Here 
it  is !  ...  It's  settled  now.  .  .  .  The  thing  now  is  to 
get  her  to  the  hotel." 

They  roamed  on  for  nearly  an  hour,  fancying  that 
only  a  few  minutes  had  passed  by. 


218    ,  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Approaching  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Nazionale,  near 
the  Aquarium,  they  stopped  an  instant.  There  were  fewer 
people  and  more  life  here  than  in  the  road  to  Posilipo. 
They  avoided  the  electric  lights  of  the  Via  Caracciolo 
reflected  in  the  sea, — the  two  instinctively  approaching 
a  bench,  and  seeking  the  ebony  shade  of  the  trees. 

Freya  had  suddenly  become  very  composed.  She  ap- 
peared annoyed  at  herself  for  her  languor  during  the 
walk.  Finding  herself  near  the  hotel,  she  recovered  her 
energy  as  though  in  the  presence  of  danger. 

"Good-by,  Ulysses!  We  shall  see  each  other  again 
to-morrow.  ...  I  am  going  to  pass  the  night  in  the 
doctor's  home." 

The  sailor  withdrew  a  little  in  the  shock  of  surprise. 
"Was  it  a  jest?  .  .  ."  But  no,  he  could  not  think  that. 
The  very  tone  of  her  words  displayed  firm  resolution. 

He  entreated  her  humbly  with  a  thick  and  thieatening 
voice  not  to  go  away.  At  the  same  time  his  mental 
counselor  was  rancorously  chanting,  "She's  making  a 
fool  of  you !  .  .  .  It's  time  to  put  an  end  to  all  this.  .  .  . 
Make  her  feel  your  masculine  authority."  And  this 
voice  had  the  same  ring  as  that  of  the  dead  Triton. 

Suddenly  occurred  a  violent,  brutal,  dishonorable 
thing.  Ulysses  threw  himself  upon  her  as  though  he 
were  going  to  kill  her,  holding  her  tightly  in  his  arms, 
and  the  two  fell  upon  the  bench,  panting  and  struggling. 
But  this  only  lasted  an  instant. 

The  vigorous  Ferragut,  trembling  with  emotion,  was 
only  using  half  of  his  powers.  He  suddenly  sprang 
back,  raising  his  two  hands  to  his  shoulders.  He  felt  a 
sharp  pain,  as  though  one  of  his  bones  had  just  broken. 
She  had  repelled  him  with  a  certain  Japanese  fencing 
trick  that  employs  the  hands  as  irresistible  weapons. 

"Ah !  .  .  .  Tal!  .  .  ."  he  roared,  hurling  upon  her  the 
Voorst  of  feminine  insults. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  219 

And  he  fell  upon  her  again  as  though  he  were  a  man, 
uniting  to  his  original  purpose  the  desire  of  maltreat- 
ing her,  of  degrading  her,  of  making  her  his. 

Freya  awaited  him  firmly.  .  .  .  Seeing  the  icy  glitter 
of  her  eyes,  Ulysses  without  knowing  why  recalled  the 
"eye  of  the  morning,"  the  companionable  reptile  of  her 
dances. 

In  this  furious  onslaught  he  was  stopped  by  the  sim- 
ple contact  on  his  forehead  of  a  diminutive  metal  circle, 
a  kind  of  frozen  thimble  that  was  resting  on  his  skin. 

He  looked.  ...  It  was  a  little  revolver,  a  deadly  toy 
of  shining  nickel.  It  had  appeared  in  Freya's  hand, 
drawn  secretly  from  her  clothes,  or  perhaps  from  that 
gold-mesh  bag  whose  contents  seemed  inexhaustible. 

She  was  looking  at  him  fixedly  with  her  finger  on  the 
trigger.  He  surmised  her  familiarity  with  the  weapon 
that  she  had  in  her  hand.  It  could  not  be  the  first  time 
that  she  had  had  recourse  to  it. 

The  sailor's  indecision  was  brief.  With  a  man,  he 
would  have  taken  possession  of  the  threatening  hand, 
twisting  it  until  he  broke  it,  without  the  slightest  fear 
of  the  revolver.  But  he  had  opposite  him  a  woman 
.  .  .  and  this  woman  was  entirely  capable  of  wounding 
him,  and  at  the  same  time  placing  him  in  a  ridiculous 
situation. 

"Retire,  sir!"  ordered  Freya  with  a  ceremonious  and 
threatening  tone  as  though  she  were  speaking  to  an 
utter  stranger. 

But  it  was  she  who  retired  finally,  seeing  that  Ulysses 
stepped  back,  thoughtful  and  confused.  She  turned  her 
back  on  him  at  the  same  time  that  the  revolver  disap- 
peared from  her  hand. 

Before  departing,  she  murmured  some  words  that  Fer- 
ragut  was  not  able  to  understand,  looking  at  him  for  the 
last  time  with  contemptuous  eyes.  They  must  be  terri- 


220  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ble  insults,  and  just  because  she  was  uttering  them  in 
a  mysterious  language,  he  felt  her  scorn  more  deeply. 

"It  cannot  be.  ...  It  is  all  ended.  It  is  ended  for- 
ever! .  .  ." 

She  said  this  repeatedly  before  returning  to  her  hotel. 
And  he  thought  of  it  during  all  the  wakeful  night  be- 
tween agonizing  attacks  of  nightmare.  When  the 
morning  was  well  advanced  the  bugles  of  the  bersag- 
lieri  awakened  him  from  a  heavy  sleep. 

He  paid  his  bill  in  the  manager's  office  and  gave  a  last 
tip  to  the  porter,  telling  him  that  a  few  hours  later 
a  man  from  the  ship  would  come  for  his  baggage. 

He  was  happy,  with  the  forced  happiness  of  one 
obliged  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances.  He 
congratulated  himself  upon  his  liberty  as  though  he  had 
gained  this  liberty  of  his  own  free  will  and  it  had  not 
been  imposed  upon  him  by  her  scorn.  Since  the  mem- 
ory of  the  preceding  day  pained  him,  putting  hina  in  a 
ridiculous  and  gross  light,  it  was  better  not  to  recall 
the  past. 

He  stopped  in  the  street  to  take  a  last  look  at  the 
hotel.  "Adieu,  accursed  albergo!  .  .  .  Never  will  I  see 
you  again.  Would  that  you  might  burn  down  with  all 
your  occupants!" 

Upon  treading  the  deck  of  the  Mare  Nostrum,  his  en- 
forced satisfaction  became  immeasurably  increased. 
Here  only  could  he  live  far  from  the  complications  and 
illusions  of  terrestrial  life. 

All  those  aboard  who  in  previous  weeks  had  feared 
the  arrival  of  the  ill-humored  captain,  now  smiled  as 
though  they  saw  the  sun  coming  out  after  a  tempest. 
He  distributed  kindly  words  and  affectionate  grasps  of 
the  hand.  The  repairs  were  going  to  be  finished  the 
following  day.  .  .  .  Very  good!  He  was  entirely  con- 
tent. Soon  they  would  be  on  the  sea  again. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  221 

In  the  galley  he  greeted  Uncle  Caragol.  .  .  .  That 
man  was  a  philosopher.  All  the  women  in  the  world 
were  not  in  his  estimation  worth  a  good  dish  of  rice. 
Ah,  the  great  man !  .  .  .  He  surely  was  going  to  live  to 
be  a  hundred!  And  the  cook  flattered  by  such  praises, 
whose  origin  he  did  not  happen  to  comprehend,  responded 
as  always, — "That  is  so,  my  captain." 

Toni,  silent,  disciplined  and  familiar,  inspired  him 
•with  no  less  admiration.  His  life  was  an  upright  life, 
firm  and  plain,  as  the  road  of  duty.  When  the  young 
officials  used  to  talk  in  his  presence  of  boisterous  sup- 
pers on  shore  with  women  from  distant  countries,  the 
pilot  had  always  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Money  and 
pleasure  ought  to  be  kept  for  the  home,"  he  would  say 
sententiously. 

Ferragut  had  laughed  many  times  at  the  virtue  of  his 
mate  who,  timid  and  torpid,  used  to  pass  over  a  great 
part  of  the  planet  without  permitting  himself  any  distrac- 
tion whatever,  but  would  awake  with  an  overpower- 
ing tension  whenever  the  chances  of  their  voyage  brought 
him  the  opportunity  of  a  few  days'  stay  in  his  home 
in  the  Marina. 

And  with  the  tranquil  grossness  of  the  virtuous  stay- 
at-home,  he  was  accustomed  to  calculate  the  dates  of  his 
voyages  by  the  age  of  his  eight  children.  "This  one  was 
on  returning  from  the  Philippines.  .  .  .  This  other  one 
after  I  was  in  the  coast  trade  in  the  Gulf  of  Califor- 
nia. .  .  ." 

His  methodical  serenity,  incapable  of  being  perturbed 
by  frivolous  adventures,  made  him  guess  from  the  very 
first  the  secret  of  the  captain's  enthusiasm  and  wrath. 
"It  must  be  a  woman,"  he  said  to  himself,  upon  seeing 
him  installed  in  a  hotel  in  Naples,  and  after  feeling 
the  effects  of  his  bad  humor  in  the  fleeting  appearances 
that  he  made  on  board. 


222  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Now,  listening  to  Ferragut's  jovial  comments  on  his 
mate's  tranquil  life  and  philosophic  sagacity,  Toni  again 
ejaculated  mentally,  without  the  captain's  suspecting  any- 
thing from  his  impassive  countenance:  "Now  he  has 
quarreled  with  the  woman.  He  has  tired  of  her.  But 
better  so !" 

He  was  more  than  ever  confirmed  in  this  belief  on 
hearing  Ferragut's  plans.  As  soon  as  the  boat  could 
be  made  ready,  they  were  going  to  anchor  in  the  commer- 
cial port.  He  had  been  told  of  a  certain  cargo  for  Barce- 
lona,— some  cheap  freight, — but  that  was  better  than  go- 
ing empty.  ...  If  the  cargo  should  be  delayed,  they 
would  set  sail  merely  with  ballast.  More  than  any- 
thing else,  he  wished  to  renew  his  trips.  Boats  were 
scarcer  and  more  in  demand  all  the  time.  It  was  high 
time  to  stop  this  enforced  inertia. 

"Yes,  it's  high  time,"  responded  Toni  who,  during  the 
entire  month,  had  only  gone  ashore  twice. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  left  the  repair  dock  coming  to  an- 
chor opposite  the  commercial  wharf,  shining  and  re- 
juvenated, with  no  imperfections  recalling  her  recent 
injuries. 

One  morning  when  the  captain  and  his  second  were 
in  the  saloon  under  the  poop  undecided  whether  to  start 
that  night — or  wait  four  days  longer,  as  the  owners  of 
the  cargo  were  requesting, — the  third  officer,  a  young  An- 
dalusian,  presented  himself  greatly  excited  by  the  piece 
of  news  of  which  he  was  the  bearer.  A  most  beautiful 
and  elegant  lady  (the  young  man  emphasized  his  ad- 
miration with  these  details)  had  just  arrived  in  a  launch 
and,  without  asking  permission,  had  climbed  the  ladder, 
entering  the  vessel  as  though  it  were  her  own  dwell- 
ing. 

Toni  felt  his  heart  thump.  His  swarthy  countenance 
became  ashy  pale.  "Cristo!  .  .  .  The  woman  from 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  223 

Naples!"  He  did  not  really  know  whether  she  was 
from  Naples ;  he  had  never  seen  her,  but  he  was  certain 
that  she  was  coming  as  a  fatal  impediment,  as  an  un- 
expected calamity.  .  .  .  Just  when  things  were  going  so 
well,  too !  .  .  . 

The  captain  whirled  around  in  his  arm  chair,  jumped 
up  from  the  table,  and  in  two  bounds  was  out  on  deck. 

Something  extraordinary  was  perturbing  the  crew. 
They,  too,  were  all  on  deck  as  though  some  powerful 
attraction  had  drawn  them  from  the  orlop,  from  the 
depths  of  the  hold,  from  the  metallic  corridors  of  the 
engine  rooms.  Even  Uncle  Caragol  was  sticking  his 
episcopal  face  out  through  the  door  of  the  kitchen,  hold- 
ing a  hand  closed  in  the  form  of  a  telescope  to  one  of  his 
eyes,  without  being  able  to  distinguish  clearly  the  an- 
nounced marvel. 

Freya  was  a  few  steps  away  in  a  blue  suit  somewhat 
like  a  sailor's,  as  though  this  visit  to  the  ship  necessi- 
tated the  imitative  elegance  and  bearing  of  the  multi- 
millionaires who  live  on  their  yachts.  The  seamen,  clean- 
ing brass  or  polishing  wood,  were  pretending  extraor- 
dinary occupations  in  order  to  get  near  her.  They  felt 
the  necessity  of  being  in  her  atmosphere,  of  living  in 
the  perfumed  air  that  enveloped  her,  following  her  steps. 

Upon  seeing  the  captain,  she  simply  extended  her 
hand,  as  though  she  might  have  seen  him  the  day  be- 
fore. 

"Do  not  object,  Ferragut !  ...  As  I  did  not  find  you 
in  the  hotel,  I  felt  obliged  to  visit  you  on  your  ship.  I 
have  always  wanted  to  see  your  floating  home.  Every- 
thing about  you  interests  me." 

She  appeared  an  entirely  different  woman.  Ulysses 
noted  the  great  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her  per- 
son during  the  last  days.  Her  eyes  were  bold,  challeng- 
ing, of  a  calm  seductiveness.  She  appeared  to  be  sur- 


224  MARE  NOSTRUM 

rendering  herself  entirely.  Her  smiles,  her  words,  her 
manner  of  crossing  the  deck  toward  the  staterooms  of 
the  vessel  proclaimed  her  determination  to  end  her  long 
resistance  as  quickly  as  possible,  yielding  to  the  sailor's 
desires. 

In  spite  of  former  failures,  he  felt  anew  the  joy  of 
triumph.  "Now  it  is  going  to  be!  My  absence  has 
conquered  her.  .  .  ."  And  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
foretasting  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  love  and  triumphant 
pride,  there  arose  in  him  a  vague  instinct  of  suspicion 
of  this  woman  so  suddenly  transformed,  perhaps  loving 
her  less  than  in  former  days  when  she  resisted  and  ad- 
vised him  to  be  gone. 

In  the  forward  cabin  he  presented  her  to  his  mate.  The 
crude  Toni  experienced  the  same  hallucination  that  had 
perturbed  all  the  others  on  the  boat.  What  a  woman! 
...  At  the  very  first  glance  he  understood  and  excused 
the  captain's  conduct.  Then  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her 
with  an  expression  of  alarm,  as  though  her  presence  made 
him  tremble  for  the  fate  of  the  steamer:  but  finally  he 
succumbed,  dominated  by  this  lady  who  was  examining 
the  saloon  as  though  she  had  come  to  remain  in  it  for- 
ever. 

For  a  few  moments  Freya  was  interested  in  the  hairy 
ugliness  of  Toni.  He  was  a  true  Mediterranean,  just  the 
kind  she  had  imagined  to  herself, — a  faun  pursuing 
nymphs.  Ulysses  laughed  at  the  eulogies  which  she 
passed  on  his  mate. 

"In  his  shoes,"  she  continued,  "he  ought  to  have  pretty 
little  hoofs  like  a  goat's.  He  must  know  how  to  play 
the  flute.  Don't  you  think  so,  Captain?  .  .  ." 

The  faun,  wrinkled  and  wrathful,  took  himself  off, 
saluting  her  stolidly  as  he  went  away.  Ferragut  felt 
greatly  relieved  at  his  absence,  since  he  was  fearful  of 
some  rude  speech  from  Toni. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  225 

Finding  herself  alone  with  Ulysses,  she  ran  through 
the  great  room  from  one  side  to  the  other. 

"Is  here  where  you  live,  my  dear  shark?  .  .  .  Let  me 
see  everything.  Let  me  poke  around  everywhere. 
Everything  of  yours  interests  me.  You  will  not  say  now 
that  I  do  not  love  you.  What  a  boast  for  Captain  Fer- 
ragut !  The  ladies  come  to  seek  him  on  his  ship.  .  .  ." 

She  interrupted  her  ironic  and  affectionate  chatter  in 
order  to  defend  herself  gently  from  the  sailor.  He,  for- 
getting the  past,  and  wishing  to  take  advantage  of  the 
happiness  so  suddenly  presented  to  him,  was  kissing 
the  nape  of  her  neck. 

"There,  .  .  .  there!"  she  sighed.  "Now  let  me 'look 
around.  I  feel  the  curiosity  of  a  child." 

She  opened  the  piano, — the  poor  piano  of  the  Scotch 
captain — and  some  thin  and  plaintive  chords,  showing 
many  years'  lack  of  tuning,  filled  the  saloon  with  the 
melancholy  of  resuscitated  memories. 

The  melody  was  like  that  of  the  musical  boxes  that  we 
find  forgotten  in  the  depths  of  a  wardrobe  among  the 
clothes  of  some  deceased  old  lady.  Freya  declared  that 
it  smelled  of  withered  roses. 

Then,  leaving  the  piano,  she  opened  one  after  the 
other,  all  the  doors  of  the  staterooms  surrounding  the 
saloon.  She  stopped  at  the  captain's  sleeping  room 
without  wishing  to  pass  the  threshold,  without  loosening 
her  hold  on  the  brass  doorknob  in  her  right  hand.  Fer- 
ragut  behind  her,  was  pushing  her  with  treacherous  gen- 
tleness, at  the  same  time  repeating  his  caresses  on  her 
neck. 

"No;  here,  no,"  she  said.  "Not  for  anything  in  the 
world!  ...  I  will  be  yours,  I  promise  you;  I  give  you 
my  word  of  honor.  But  where  I  will  and  when  it  seems 
best  to  me.  .  .  .  Very  soon,  Ulysses !" 

He  felt  complete  gratification  in  all  these  affirmations 


226  MARE  NOSTRUM 

made  in  a  caressing  and  submissive  voice,  all  possible 
pride  in  such  spontaneous,  affectionate  address,  equiv- 
alent to  the  first  surrender. 

The  arrival  of  one  of  Uncle  Caragol's  acolytes  made 
them  recover  their  composure.  He  was  bringing  two 
enormous  glasses  filled  with  a  ruddy  and  foamy  cocktail, 
— an  intoxicating  and  sweet  mixture,  a  composite  of  all 
the  knowledge  acquired  by  the  chef  in  his  intercourse 
with  the  drunkards  of  the  principal  ports  of  the  world. 

She  tested  the  liquid,  rolling  up  her  eyes  like  a 
greedy  tabby.  Then  she  broke  forth  into  praises,  lifting 
up  the  glass  in  a  solemn  manner.  She  was  offering  her 
libation  to  Eros,  the  god  of  Love,  the  most  beautiful 
of  the  gods,  and  Ferragut  who  always  had  a  certain 
terror  of  the  infernal  and  agreeable  concoctions  of  his 
cook,  gulped  the  glass  in  one  swallow,  in  order  to  join 
in  the  invocation. 

All  was  arranged  between  the  two.  She  was  giving 
the  orders.  Ferragut  would  return  ashore,  lodging  in 
the  same  albergo.  They  would  continue  their  life  as  be- 
fore, as  though  nothing  had  occurred. 

"This  evening  you  will  await  me  in  the  gardens  of  the 
Villa  Nazioncde.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  where  you  wished  to 
kill  me,  you  highwayman!  .  .  ." 

Before  he  should  clearly  recall  that  night  of  violence, 
Freya  continued  her  recollections  with  feminine  astute- 
ness. ...  It  was  Ulysses  who  had  wanted  to  kill  her; 
she  reiterated  it  without  admitting  any  reply. 

"We  shall  visit  the  doctor,"  she  .continued.  "The  poor 
woman  wants  to  see  you  and  has  asked  me  to  bring  you. 
She  is  very  much  interested  in  you  because  she  knows 
that  I  love  you,  my  pirate!" 

After  having  arranged  the  hour  of  meeting,  Freya 
wished  to  depart.  But  before  returning  to  her  launch, 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  227 

she  felt  curious  to  inspect  the  boat,  just  as  she  had  ex- 
amined the  saloon  and  the  staterooms. 

With  the  air  of  a  reigning  princess,  preceded  by  the 
captain  and  followed  by  the  officials,  she  went  over  the 
two  decks,  entered  the  galleries  of  the  engine  room  and 
the  four-sided  abyss  of  the  hatchways,  sniffing  the  musty 
odor  of  the  hold.  On  the  bridge  she  touched  with  child- 
ish enthusiasm  the  large  brass  hood  of  the  binnacle  and 
other  steering  instruments  glistening  as  though  made  of 
gold. 

She  wished  to  see  the  galley  and  invaded  Uncle  Cara- 
gol's  dominions,  putting  his  formal  lines  of  casseroles  into 
lamentable  disorder,  and  poking  the  tip  of  her  rosy  little 
nose  into  the  steam  arising  from  the  great  stew  in  which 
was  boiling  the  crew's  mess. 

The  old  man  was  able  to  see  her  close  with  his  half- 
blind  eyes.  "Yes,  indeed,  she  was  pretty!"  The  frou- 
frou of  her  skirts  and  the  frequent  little  clashes  that 
he  had  with  her  in  her  comings  and  goings,  perturbed 
the  apostle.  His  chef -like  sense  of  smell  made  him 
feel  annoyed  by  the  perfume  of  this  lady.  "Pretty,  but 
with  the  smell  of  .  .  ."  he  repeated  mentally.  For  him 
all  feminine  perfume  merited  this  scandalous  title. 
Good  women  smelled  of  fish  and  kitchen  pots ;  he  was 
sure  of  that.  ...  In  his  faraway  youth,  the  knowledge 
of  poor  Caragol  had  never  gone  beyond  that. 

As  soon  as  he  was  alone,  he  snatched  up  a  rag,  waving 
it  violently  around,  as  though  he  were  driving  away 
flies.  He  wished  to  clear  the  atmosphere  of  bad  odors. 
He  felt  as  scandalized  as  though  she  had  let  a  cake  of 
soap  fall  into  one  of  his  delicious  rice  compounds. 

The  men  of  the  crew  crowded  to  the  railings  in  order 
to  follow  the  course  of  the  little  launch  that  was  making 
toward  shore. 


228  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Toni,  standing  on  the  bridge,  also  contemplated  her 
with  enigmatic  eyes. 

"You  are  handsome,  but  may  the  sea  swallow  you  up 
before  you  come  back!" 

A  handkerchief  was  waving  from  the  stern  of  the 
little  boat.  "Good-by,  Captain!"  And  the  captain 
nodded  his  head,  smiling  and  gratified  by  the  feminine 
greeting  while  the  sailors  were  envying  him  his  good 
luck. 

Again  one  of  the  men  of  the  crew  carried  Ferragut's 
baggage  to  the  albergo  on  the  shore  of  S.  Lucia.  The 
porter,  as  though  foreseeing  the  chance  of  getting  an 
easy  fee  from  his  client,  took  it  upon  himself  to  select 
a  room  for  him,  an  apartment  on  a  floor  lower  than 
on  his  former  stay,  near  that  which  the  signora  Talberg 
was  occupying. 

They  met  in  mid-afternoon  in  the  Villa  Nazionale,  and 
began  their  walk  together  through  the  streets  of  Chiaja. 
At  last  Ulysses  was  going  to  know  where  the  doctor  was 
hiding  her  majestic  personality.  He  anticipated  some- 
thing extraordinary  in  this  dwelling-place,  but  was  dis- 
posed to  hide  his  impressions  for  fear  of  losing  the  affec- 
tion and  support  of  the  wise  lady  who  seemed  to  be 
exercising  so  great  a  power  over  Freya. 

They  entered  into  the  vestibule  of  an  ancient  palace. 
Many  times  the  sailor  had  stopped  before  this  door,  but 
had  gone  on,  misled  by  the  little  metal  door  plates  an- 
nouncing the  offices  and  counting-houses  installed  on  the 
different  floors. 

He  beheld  an  arcaded  court  paved  with  great  tiled 
slabs  upon  which  opened  the  curving  balconies  of  the 
four  interior  sides  of  the  palace.  They  climbed  up  a 
stairway  of  resounding  echoes,  as  large  as  one  of  the  hill- 
side streets,  with  broad  turnings  which  in  former  time 
permitted  the  passage  of  the  litters  and  chairmen.  As 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  229 

souvenirs  of  the  white-wigged  personages  and  ladies  of 
voluminous  farthingales  who  had  passed  through  this 
palace,  there  were  still  some  classic  busts  on  the  landing 
places,  a  hand-wrought  iron  railing,  and  various  huge 
lanterns  of  dull  gold  and  blurred  glass. 

They  stopped  on  the  first  floor  before  a  row  of  doors 
rather  weather-beaten  by  the  years. 

"Here  it  is,"  said  Freya. 

And  thereupon  she  pointed  to  the  only  door  that  was 
covered  with  a  screen  of  green  leather  displaying  a 
commercial  sign, — enormous,  gilded  and  pretentious. 
The  doctor  was  lodging  in  an  office.  .  .  .  How  could  he 
ever  have  found  it! 

The  first  room  really  was  an  office,  a  merchant's  room 
with  files  for  papers,  maps,  a  safe  for  stocks,  and  vari- 
ous tables.  One  employee  only  was  working  here, — a 
man  of  uncertain  age  with  a  childish  face  and  a  clipped 
beard.  His  obsequious  and  smiling  attitude  was  in  strik- 
ing contrast  to  his  evasive  glance, — a  glance  of  alarm 
and  distrust. 

Upon  seeing  Freya  he  arose  from  his  seat.  She 
greeted  him,  calling  him  Karl,  and  passed  on  as  though 
he  were  a  mere  porter.  Ulysses  upon  following  her, 
surmised  that  the  suspicious  glance  of  the  writer  was 
fixed  upon  his  back. 

"Is  he  a  Pole,  too?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  a  Pole.  ...  He  is  a  protege  of  the  doctor's." 

They  entered  a  salon  evidently  furnished  in  great 
haste,  with  the  happy-go-lucky  and  individual  knack  of 
those  accustomed  to  traveling  and  improvising  a  dwelling 
place; — divans  with  cheap  and  showy  chintzes,  skins  of 
the  American  llama,  glaring  imitation-Oriental  rugs,  and 
on  the  walls,  prints  from  the  periodicals  between  gilt 
moldings.  On  a  table  were  displayed  their  marble  orna- 
ments and  silver  things,  a  great  dressing-case  with  a 


230  MARE  NOSTRUM 

cover  of  cut  leather,  and  a  few  little  Neapolitan  statu- 
ettes which  had  been  bought  at  the  last  moment  in  order 
to  give  a  certain  air  of  sedentary  respectability  to  this 
room  which  could  be  dismantled  suddenly  and  whose 
most  valuable  adornments  were  acquired  en  route. 

Through  a  half-drawn  portiere  they  descried  the  doc- 
tor writing  in  the  nearby  room.  She  was  bending  over 
an  American  desk,  but  she  saw  them  immediately  in 
a  mirror  which  she  kept  always  in  front  of  her  in  order 
to  spy  on  all  that  was  passing  behind  her. 

Ulysses  surmised  that  the  imposing  dame  had  made 
certain  additions  to  her  toilette  in  order  to  receive  him. 
A  gown  as  close  as  a  sheath  molded  the  exuberance  of 
her  figure.  The  narrow  skirt  drawn  tightly  over  the  edge 
of  her  knees  appeared  like  the  handle  of  an  enormous 
club.  Over  the  green  sea  of  her  dress  she  was  wear- 
ing a  spangled  white  tulle  draped  like  a  shawl.  The 
captain,  in  spite  of  his  respect  for  this  wise  lady,  could 
not  help  comparing  her  to  a  well-nourished  mother-mer- 
maid in  the  oceanic  pasture  lands. 

With  outstretched  hands  and  a  joyous  expression  on 
her  countenance  irradiating  even  her  glasses,  she  ad- 
vanced toward  Ferragut.  Her  meeting  was  almost  an 
embrace.  .  .  .  "My  dear  Captain!  Such  a  long  time 
since  I  have  seen  you !  .  .  ."  She  had  heard  of  him  fre- 
quently through  her  young  friend,  but  even  so,  she  could 
not  but  consider  it  a  misfortune  that  the  sailor  had 
never  come  to  see  her. 

She  appeared  to  have  forgotten  her  coldness  when  bid- 
ding him  farewell  in  Salerno  and  the  care  which  she 
had  taken  to  hide  from  him  her  home  address. 

Neither  did  Ferragut  recall  this  fact  now  that  he  was 
so  agreeably  touched  by  the  doctor's  amiability.  She  had 
seated  herself  between  the  two  as  though  wishing  to  pro- 
tect them  with  all  the  majesty  of  her  person  and  the  af- 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  231 

faction  of  her  eyes.  She  was  a  real  mother  for  her 
young  friend.  While  speaking,  she  was  patting  Freya' & 
great  locks  of  hair,  which  had  just  escaped  from  under- 
neath her  hat,  and  Freya,  adapting  herself  to  the  tender- 
ness of  the  situation,  cuddled  down  against  the  doctor, 
assuming  the  air  of  a  timid  and  devoted  child  while  she 
fixed  on  Ulysses  her  eyes  of  sweet  promise. 

"You  must  love  her  very  much,  Captain/'  continued 
the  matron.  "Freya  speaks  only  of  you.  She  has  been 
so  unfortunate !  .  .  .  Life  has  been  so  cruel  to  her !  .  .  ." 

The  sailor  felt  as  though  he  were  in  the  placid  bosom 
of  a  family.  That  lady  was  discreetly  taking  everything 
for  granted,  speaking  to  him  as  to  a  son-in-law.  Her 
kindly  glance  was  somewhat  melancholy.  It  was  the 
sweet  sadness  of  mature  people  who  find  the  present 
monotonous,  the  future  circumscribed,  and  taking  refuge 
in  memories  of  the  past,  envy  the  young  who  enjoy  the 
reality  of  what  they  can  taste  only  in  memory. 

"Happy  you !  .  .  .  You  love  each  other  so  much !  .  .  . 
Life  is  worth  living  only  because  of  love." 

And  Freya,  as  though  irresistibly  affected  by  these 
counsels,  threw  one  arm  around  the  doctor's  globular, 
corseted  figure,  while  convulsively  clasping  Ulysses'  right 
hand. 

The  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  with  their  protecting 
gleam,  appeared  to  incite  them  to  even  greater  intimacy. 
"You  may  kiss  each  other.  .  .  ."  And  the  imposing 
dame,  trumping  up  an  insignificant  pretext,  so  as  to  fa- 
cilitate their  love-making  was  about  to  go  out  when  the 
drapery  of  the  door  between  the  salon  and  office  was 
raised. 

There  entered  a  man  of  Ferragut's  age,  but  shorter, 
with  a  weather-beaten  face.  He  was  dressed  in  the  Eng- 
lish style  with  scrupulous  correctness.'  It  was  plain  to 
be  seen  that  he  was  accustomed  to  take  the  most  exces- 


232  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sive  and  childish  interest  in  everything  referring  to  the 
adornment  of  his  person.  The  suit  of  gray  wool  ap- 
peared to  have  achieved  its  finishing  touch  in  the  har- 
mony of  cravat,  socks,  and  handkerchief  sticking  out 
of  his  pocket, — all  in  the  same  tone.  The  three  pieces 
were  blue,  without  the  slightest  variation  in  shade,  chosen 
with  the  exactitude  of  a  man  who  would  undoubtedly 
suffer  cruel  discomfort  if  obliged  to  go  out  into  the 
street  with  his  cravat  of  one  color  and  his  socks  of  an- 
other. His  gloves  had  the  same  dark  tan  tone  as  his 
shoes. 

Ferragut  thought  that  this  dandy,  in  order  to  be  ab- 
solutely perfect,  ought  to  be  clean  shaved.  And  yet,  he 
was  wearing  a  beard,  close  clipped  on  the  cheeks  and 
forming  over  the  chin  a  short,  sharp  point.  The  cap- 
tain suspected  that  he  was  a  sailor.  In  the  German 
fleet,  in  the  Russian,  in  all  the  navies  of  the  North  where 
they  are  not  shaved  in  the  English  style,  they  use  this 
traditional  little  beard. 

The  newcomer  bowed,  or,  more  properly  speaking, 
doubled  himself  over  at  right  angles,  with  a  brusque 
stiffness,  upon  kissing  the  hands  of  the  two  ladies.  Then 
he  raised  his  impertinent  monocle  and  fixed  it  in  one 
of  his  eyes  while  the  doctor  made  the  introduction. 

"Count  Kaledine  .  .  .  Captain  Ferragut." 

The  count  gave  the  sailor  his  hand,  a  hard  hand,  well- 
cared  for  and  vigorous,  which  for  a  long  time  enclosed 
that  of  Ulysses,  wishing  to  dominate  it  with  an  in- 
effectual pressure. 

The  conversation  continued  in  English  which  was  the 
language  employed  by  the  doctor  in  her  relations  with 
Ulysses. 

"The  gentleman  is  a  sailor?"  asked  Ferragut  in  order 
to  clarify  his  doubts. 

The  monocle  did  not  move  from  its  orbit,  but  a  light 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  233 

ripple  of  surprise  appeared  to  cross  its  luminous  con- 
vexity. The  doctor  hastened  to  reply. 

"The  count  is  an  illustrious  diplomat  who  is  now  on 
leave,  regaining  his  health.  He  has  traveled  a  great  deal, 
but  he  is  not  a  sailor." 

And  she  continued  her  explanations. 

The  Kaledines  were  of  a  Russian  family  ennobled  in 
the  days  of  Catherine  the  Great.  The  doctor,  being  a 
Polish  woman,  had  been  connected  with  them  for  many 
years.  .  .  .  And  she  ceased  speaking,  giving  Kaledine  his 
cue  in  the  conversation. 

At  the  beginning  the  count  appeared  cold  and  rather 
disdainful  in  his  words,  as  though  he  could  not  possibly 
lay  aside  his  diplomatic  haughtiness.  But  this  hauteur 
gradually  melted  away. 

Through  his  "distinguished  friend, — Madame  Tal- 
berg,"  he  had  heard  of  many  of  Ferragut's  nautical  ad- 
ventures. Men  of  action,  the  heroes  of  the  ocean,  were 
always  exceedingly  interesting  to  him. 

Ulysses  suddenly  noticed  in  his  noble  interlocutor  a 
warm  affection,  a  desire  to  make  himself  agreeable,  just 
like  the  doctor's.  What  a  lovely  home  this  was  in  which 
everybody  was  making  an  effort  to  be  gracious  to  Cap- 
tain Ferragut! 

The  count,  smiling  amiably,  ceased  to  avail  himself  of 
his  English,  and  soon  began  talking  to  him  in  Spanish, 
as  though  he  had  reserved  this  final  touch  in  order  to 
captivate  Ulysses*  affection  with  this  most  irresistible 
of  flatteries. 

"I  have  lived  in  Mexico,"  he  said,  in  order  to  explain 
his  knowledge  of  the  language.  "I  made  a  long  trip 
through  the  Philippines  when  I  was  living  in  Japan." 

The  seas  of  the  extreme  Far  East  were  those  least 
frequented  by  Ulysses.  Only  twice  had  he  entered  the 
Chinese  and  Nipponese  harbors,  but  he  knew  them 


234  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sufficiently  to  keep  up  his  end  of  the  conversation  with 
this  traveler  who  was  displaying  in  his  tastes  a  cer- 
tain artistic  refinement.  For  half  an  hour,  there  filed 
through  the  vulgar  atmosphere  of  this  salon,  images  of 
enormous  pagodas  with  superimposed  roofs  whose  strings 
of  bells  vibrated  in  the  breeze  like  an  ^Eolian  harp, 
monstrous  idols — carved  in  gold,  in  bronze,  or  in  marble- 
houses  made  of  paper,  thrones  of  bamboo,  furniture  with 
mother-of-pearl  inlay,  screens  with  flocks  of  flying 
storks. 

The  doctor  disappeared,  bored  by  a  dialogue  of  which 
she  could  only  understand  a  few  words.  Freya,  mo- 
tionless, with  drowsy  eyes,  and  a  knee  between  her 
crossed  hands,  held  herself  aloof,  understanding  the 
conversation,  but  without  taking  any  part  in  it,  as 
though  she  were  offended  at  the  forgetfulness  in  which 
the  two  men  were  leaving  her.  Finally  she  slipped  dis- 
creetly away,  responding  to  the  call  of  a  hand  peeping 
through  the  portieres.  The  doctor  was  preparing  tea  and 
needed  help. 

The  conversation  continued  on  in  no  way  affected  by 
their  absence.  Kaledine  had  abandoned  the  Asiatic 
waters  in  order  to  pass  to  the  Mediterranean,  and  there 
he  anchored  himself  with  admirable  insistence.  An- 
other sign  of  affection  for  Ferragut  who  was  finding 
him  more  and  more  charming  in  spite  of  his  slightly 
glacial  attitude. 

He  suddenly  noticed  that  it  was  not  as  a  Russian  count 
that  he  was  speaking  since,  with  brief  and  exact  ques- 
tions, he  was  making  Ferragut  reply  just  as  though  he 
were  undergoing  an  examination. 

These  signs  of  interest  shown  by  the  great  traveler  in 
the  little  mare  nostrum,  and  especially  in  the  details  of 
its  western  bowl  which  he  wished  to  know  most  minutely, 
pleased  Ferragut  greatly. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  235 

He  might  ask  him  whatever  he  wished.  Ferragut 
knew  mile  for  mile  all  its  shores, — Spanish,  French,  and 
Italian,  the  surface  and  also  its  depths. 

Perhaps  because  he  was  staying  in  Naples,  Kaledine 
insisted  upon  learning  especially  about  that  part  of  the 
Mediterranean  enclosed  between  Sardinia,  southern 
Italy,  and  Sicily, — the  part  which  the  ancients  had  called 
the  Tyrrhenian  Sea.  .  .  .  Did  the  captain  happen  to 
know  those  little  frequented  and  almost  forgotten  islands 
opposite  Sicily? 

"I  know  all  about  all  of  them,"  replied  the  sailor 
boastfully.  And  without  realizing  exactly  whether  it 
was  curiosity  on  the  part  of  the  listener,  or  whether  he 
was  being  submitted  to  an  interesting  examination,  he 
talked  on  and  on. 

He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  archipelago  of  the 
Lipari  Islands  with  their  mines  of  sulphur  and  pumice- 
stone, — a  group  of  volcanic  peaks  which  rise  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  Mediterranean.  In  these  the  ancients 
had  placed  y£olus,  lord  of  the  winds;  in  these  was 
Stromboli,  vomiting  forth  enormous  balls  of  lava  which 
exploded  with  the  roar  of  thunder.  Its  volcanic  slag  fell 
again  into  the  chimneys  of  the  crater  or  rolled  down  the 
mountain  slopes,  falling  into  the  waves. 

More  to  the  west,  isolated  and  solitary  in  a  sea  free 
from  shoals,  was  Ustica, — an  abrupt  and  volcanic  island 
that  the  Phoenicians  had  colonized  and  which  had  served 
as  a  refuge  for  Saracen  pilots.  Its  population  was  scant 
and  poor.  There  was  nothing  to  see  on  it,  apart  from 
certain  fossil  shells  interesting  to  men  of  science. 

But  the  count  showed  himself  wonderfully  interested 
in  this  extinct  and  lonely  crater  in  the  midst  of  a  sea 
frequented  only  by  fishing  smacks. 

Ferragut  had  also  seen,  although 'far  off,  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  harbor  of  Trapani,  the  archipelago  of  the 


236  MARE  NOSTRUM 

^Egadian  Islands  where  are  the  great  fishing  grounds 
of  the  tunny.  Once  he  had  disembarked  in  the  island 
of  Pantellaria,  situated  halfway  between  Sicily  and 
Africa.  It  was  a  very  high,  volcanic  cone  that  came 
up  in  the  midst  of  the  strait  and  had  at  its  base  alka- 
line lakes,  sulphurous  fumes,  thermal  waters,  and  pre- 
historic constructions  of  great  stone  blocks  similar  to 
those  in  Sardinia  and  the  Balearic  Islands.  Boats  bound 
for  Tunis  and  Tripoli  used  to  carry  cargoes  of  raisins, 
the  only  export  from  this  ancient  Phoenician  colony. 

Between  Pantellaria  and  Sicily  the  ocean  floor  was 
considerably  elevated,  having  on  its  back  an  aquatic  layer 
that  in  some  points  was  only  twelve  yards  thick.  It  was 
the  great  shoal  called  the  Aventura,  a  volcanic  swell- 
ing, a  double  submerged  island,  the  submarine  pedestal 
of  Sicily. 

The  ledge  of  Aventura  also  appeared  to  interest  the 
count  greatly. 

"You  certainly  know  the  sea  well,"  he  said  in  an 
approving  tone. 

Ferragut  was  about  to  go  on  talking  when  the  two 
ladies  entered  with  a  tray  which  contained  the  tea  service 
and  various  plates  of  cakes.  The  captain  saw  nothing 
strange  in  their  lack  of  servants.  The  doctor  and  her 
friend  were  to  him  a  pair  of  women  of  extraordinary 
customs,  and  so  he  thought  all  their  acts  were  logical 
and  natural.  Preya  served  the  tea  with  modest  grace 
as  though  she  were  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

They  passed  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  conversing 
on  distant  voyages.  Nobody  alluded  to  the  war,  nor  to 
Italy's  problem  at  that  moment  as  to  whether  she  should 
maintain  or  break  her  neutrality.  They  appeared  to  be 
living  in  an  inaccessible  place  thousands  of  leagues  from 
all  human  bustle. 

The  two  women  were  treating  the  count  with  the 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  237 

well-bred  familiarity  of  persons  in  the  same  rank  of  life, 
but  at  times  the  sailor  fancied  that  he  noted  that  they 
were  afraid  of  him. 

At  the  end  of  the  afternoon  this  personage  arose  and 
Ferragut  did  the  same,  understanding  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  bring  his  visit  to  an  end.  The  count  offered 
to  accompany  him.  While  he  was  bidding  the  doctor 
good-by,  thanking  her  with  extreme  courtesy  for  having 
introduced  him  to  the  captain,  Ferragut  felt  that  Freya 
was  clasping  his  hand  in  a  meaning  way. 

"Until  to-night,"  she  murmured  lightly,  hardly  mov- 
ing her  lips.  "I  shall  see  you  later.  .  .  .  Expect  me." 

Oh,  what  happiness !  .  .  .  The  eyes,  the  smile,  the 
pressure  of  her  hand  were  telling  him  much  more  than 
that. 

Never  did  he  take  such  an  agreeable  stroll  as  when 
walking  beside  Kaledine  through  the  streets  of  Chiaja 
toward  the  shore.  What  was  that  man  saying  ?  .  .  .  In- 
significant things  in  order  to  avoid  silence,  but  to  him 
they  appeared  to  be  observations  of  most  profound  wis- 
dom. His  voice  sounded  musical  and  affectionate. 
Everything  about  them  seemed  equally  agreeable, — the 
people  who  were  passing  through  the  streets,  the  Nea- 
politan sounds  at  nightfall,  the  dark  seas,  the  entire 
life. 

They  bade  each  other  good-by  before  the  door  of  the 
hotel.  The  count,  in  spite  of  his  offers  of  friendship, 
went  away  without  mentioning  his  address. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  thought  Ferragut.  "We  shall 
meet  again  in  the  doctor's  house/' 

He  passed  the  rest  of  his  watch  agitated  alternately 
by  hope  and  impatience.  He  did  not  wish  to  eat ;  emotion 
had  paralyzed  his  appetite.  .  .  .  And  yet,  once  seated  at 
the  table,  he  ate  more  than  ever  with  a  mechanical  and 
distraught  avidity. 


238  MARE  NOSTRUM 

He  needed  to  stroll  around,  to  talk  with  somebody,  in 
order  that  time  might  fly  by  with  greater  rapidity,  be- 
guiling his  uneasy  wait.  She  would  not  return  to  the 
hotel  until  very  late.  .  .  .  And  he  therefore  retired  to 
his  room  earlier  than  usual,  believing  with  illogical  super- 
stition that  by  so  doing  Freya  might  arrive  earlier. 

His  first  movement  upon  finding  himself  alone  in  his 
room,  was  one  of  pride.  He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling, 
pitying  the  enamored  sailor  that  a  week  before  had  been 
dwelling  on  the  floor  above.  Poor  man!  How  they 
must  have  made  fun  of  him !  .  .  .  Ulysses  admired  him- 
self as  though  he  were  an  entirely  new  personality, 
happy  and  triumphant,  completely  separated  from  that 
other  creature  by  dolorous  periods  of  humiliations  and 
failures  that  he  did  not  wish  to  recall. 

The  long,  long  hours  in  which  he  waited  with  such 
anxiety!  .  .  .  He  strolled  about  smoking,  lighting  one 
cigar  with  the  remnant  of  the  preceding  one.  Then  he 
opened  the  window,  wishing  to  get  rid  of  the  perfume  of 
strong  tobacco.  She  only  liked  Oriental  cigarettes.  .  .  . 
And  as  the  acrid  odor  of  the  strong,  succulent  Havana 
cigar  persisted  in  the  room,  he  searched  in  his  dressing- 
case  and  sprinkled  around  the  contents  of  various  per- 
fumed essences  which  he  had  long  ago  forgotten. 

A  sudden  uneasiness  disturbed  his  waiting.  Perhaps 
she  who  was  going  to  come  did  not  know  which  was  his 
room.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  had  given  her  the  direc- 
tions with  sufficient  clearness.  It  was  possible  that  she 
might  make  a  mistake.  .  .  .  He  began  to  believe  that 
really  she  had  made  a  mistake. 

Fear  and  impatience  made  him  open  his  door,  taking 
his  stand  in  the  corridor  in  order  to  look  down  toward 
Freya's  closed  room.  Every  time  that  footsteps  sounded 
on  the  stairway  or  the  grating  of  the  elevator  creaked, 
the  bearded  sailor  trembled  with  a  childish  uneasiness. 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  239 

He  wanted  to  hide  himself  and  yet  at  the  same  time  he 
wanted  to  look  to  see  if  she  was  the  one  who  was  com- 
ing. 

The  guests  occupying  the  same  floor  kept  seeing 
him  withdraw  into  his  room  in  the  most  inexplicable  at- 
titudes. Sometimes  he  would  remain  firmly  in  the  corri- 
dor as  though,  worn  out  with  useless  calling,  he  were 
looking  for  the  domestics ;  and  at  other  times  they  sur- 
prised him  with  his  head  poking  out  of  the  half-open 
door  or  hastily  withdrawing  it.  An  old  Italian  count, 
passing  by,  gave  him  a  smile  of  intelligence  and  com- 
radeship. .  .  .  He  was  in  the  secret !  The  man  was  un- 
doubtedly waiting  for  one  of  the  maids  of  the  hotel. 

He  ended  by  settling  himself  in  his  room,  but  leaving 
his  door  ajar.  The  rectangle  of  bright  light  that  it 
marked  on  the  floor  and  wall  opposite  would  guide  Freya, 
showing  her  the  way.  .  .  . 

But  he  was  not  able  to  keep  up  this  signal  very  long. 
Scantily  clad  dames  in  kimonos  and  gentlemen  in  py- 
jamas were  slipping  discreetly  down  the  passage  way  in 
soft,  slipper-clad  silence,  all  going  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, and  casting  wrathful  glances  toward  the  lighted 
doorway. 

Finally  he  had  to  close  the  door.  He  opened  a  book, 
but  it  was  impossible  to  read  two  paragraphs  consecu- 
tively. His  watch  said  twelve  o'clock. 

"She  will  not  come!  .  .  .  She  will  not  come!'1  he  cried 
in  desperation. 

A  new  idea  revived  his  drooping  spirits.  It  was 
ridiculous  that  so  discreet  a  person  as  Freya  should  ven- 
ture to  come  to  his  room  while  there  was  a  light  under 
the  door.  Love  needed  obscurity  and  mystery.  And 
besides,  this  visible  hope  might  attract  the  notice  of  some 
curious  person. 

He  snapped  off  the  electric  light  and  in  the  darkness 


24o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

found  his  bed,  throwing  himself  down  with  an  exag- 
gerated noise,  in  order  that  nobody  might  doubt  that  he 
had  retired  for  the  night.  The  darkness  reanimated  his 
hope. 

"She's  going  to  come.  .  .  .  She  will  come  at  any  mo- 
ment." 

Again  he  arose  cautiously,  noiselessly,  going  on  tiptoe. 
He  must  overcome  any  possible  difficulty  at  the  entrance. 
He  put  the  door  slightly  ajar  so  as  to  avoid  the  swinging 
noise  of  the  door-fastening.  A  chair  in  the  frame  of  the 
doorway  easily  held  it  unlatched. 

He  got  up  several  times  more,  arranging  things  to  his 
satisfaction  and  then  threw  himself  upon  the  bed,  dis- 
posed to  keep  his  watch  all  night,  if  it  was  necessary. 
He  did  not  wish  to  sleep.  No,  he  ought  not  to  drowse. 
.  .  .  And  half  an  hour  later  he  was  slumbering  pro- 
foundly without  knowing  at  what  moment  he  had  slid 
down  the  soft  slopes  of  sleep. 

Suddenly  he  awoke  as  if  some  one  had  hit  his  head 
with  a  club.  His  ears  were  buzzing.  ...  It  was  the 
rude  impression  of  one  who  sleeps  without  wishing  to 
and  feels  himself  shaken  by  reviving  restlessness.  Some 
moments  passed  without  his  taking  in  the  situation. 
Then  he  suddenly  recalled  it  all.  .  .  .  Alone!  She  had 
not  come!  .  .  .  He  did  not  know  whether  minutes  or 
hours  had  passed  by. 

Something  besides  his  uneasiness  had  brought  him 
back  to  life.  He  suspected  that  in  the  dark  silence 
some  real  thing  was  approaching.  A  little  mouse  ap- 
peared to  be  moving  down  the  corridor.  The  shoes 
placed  outside  one  of  the  doors  were  moved  with  a 
slight  creaking.  Ferragut  had  the  vague  impression  of 
air  that  is  displaced  by  the  slow  advance  of  a  body. 

The  door  trembled.  The  chair  was  pushed  back,  little 
by  little,  very  gently  pushed.  In  the  darkness  he  descried 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  241 

a  moving  shadow,  dark  and  dense.  He  made  a  move- 
ment. 

"Shhhh-h!"  sighed  a  ghostly  voice,  a  voice  from  the 
other  world.  "It  is  I." 

Instinctively  he  raised  his  right  hand  to  the  wall  and 
turned  on  the  light. 

Under  the  electric  light  it  was  she, — a  different  Freya 
from  any  that  he  had  ever  seen,  with  her  wealth  of  hair 
falling  in  golden  serpents  over  her  shoulders  covered  with 
an  Asiatic  tunic  that  enveloped  her  like  a  cloud. 

It  was  not  the  Japanese  kimono,  vulgarized  by  com- 
merce. It  was  made  in  one  piece  of  Hindustanic  cloth, 
embroidered  with  fantastic  flowers  and  capriciously 
draped.  Through  its  fine  texture  could  be  perceived  the 
flesh  as  though  it  were  a  wrapping  of  multicolored  air. 

She  uttered  a  protest.  Then,  imitating  Ulysses*  ges- 
ture, she  reached  her  hand  toward  the  wall  .  .  .  and  all 
was  darkness. 


Upon  awakening,  he  felt  the  sunlight  on  his  face.  The 
window,  whose  curtains  he  had  forgotten  to  draw,  was 
blue, — blue  sky  above  and  the  blue  of  the  sea  in  its  lower 
panes. 

He  looked  around  him.  .  .  .  Nobody !  For  a  moment 
he  believed  he  must  have  been  dreaming,  but  the  sweet 
perfume  of  her  hair  still  scented  the  pillow.  The  reality 
of  awakening  was  as  joyous  for  Ulysses,  as  sweet  as  had 
been  the  night  hours  in  the  mystery  of  the  darkness.  He 
had  never  felt  so  strong  and  so  happy. 

In  the  window  sounded  a  baritone  voice  singing  one  of 
the  songs  of  Naples, — "Oh,  sweet  land,  sweet  gulf !  .  .  ." 
That  certainly  was  the  most  beautiful  spot  in  the  world. 
Proud  and  satisfied  with  his  fate,  he  Vould  have  liked  to 
embrace  the  waves,  the  islands,  the  city,  Vesuvius. 


242  MARE  NOSTRUM 

A  bell  jangled  impatiently  in  the  corridor.  Captain 
Ferragut  was  hungry.  He  surveyed  with  the  glance  of 
an  ogre  the  cafe  au  lait,  the  abundant  bread,  and  the 
small  pat  of  butter  that  the  waiter  brought  him.  A  very 
small  portion  for  him !  .  .  .  And  while  he  was  attacking 
all  this  with  avidity,  the  door  opened  and  Freya,  rosy 
and  fresh  from  a  recent  bath  and  clad  like  a  man,  en- 
tered the  room. 

The  Hindu  tunic  had  been  replaced  with  masculine 
pyjamas  of  violet  silk.  The  pantaloons  had  the  edges 
turned  up  over  a  pair  of  white  Turkish  slippers  into 
which  were  tucked  her  bare  feet.  Over  her  heart  there 
was  embroidered  a  design  whose  letters  Ulysses  was  not 
able  to  decipher.  Above  this  device  the  point  of  her 
handkerchief  was  sticking  out  of  the  pocket.  Her  opu- 
lent hair,  twisted  on  top  of  her  head  and  the  voluptuous 
curves  that  the  silk  was  taking  in  certain  parts  of  her 
masculine  attire  were  the  only  things  that  announced  the 
woman. 

The  captain  forgot  his  breakfast,  enthusiastic  over 
this  novelty.  She  was  a  second  Freya, — a  page,  an 
adorable,  freakish  novelty.  .  .  .  But  she  repelled  his 
caresses,  obliging  him  to  seat  himself. 

She  had  entered  with  a  questioning  expression  in  her 
eyes.  She  was  feeling  the  disquietude  of  every  woman 
on  her  second  amorous  interview.  She  was  trying  to 
guess  his  impressions,  to  convince  herself  of  his  grati- 
tude, to  be  certain  that  the  fascinations  of  the  first  hours 
had  not  been  dissipated  during  her  absence. 

While  the  sailor  was  again  attacking  his  breakfast  with 
the  familiarity  of  a  lover  who  has  achieved  his  ends  and 
no  longer  needs  to  hide  and  poetize  his  grosser  necessi- 
ties, she  seated  herself  on  an  old  chaise  longue,  lighting  a 
cigarette. 

She  cuddled  into  this  seat,  her  crossed  legs  forming  an 


THE  WILES  OF  CIRCE  243 

angle  within  the  circle  of  one  of  her  arms.  Then  she 
leaned  her  head  on  her  knees,  and  in  this  position 
smoked  a  long  time,  with  her  glance  fixed  on  the  sea. 
He  guessed  that  she  was  about  to  say  something  interest- 
ing, something  that  was  puckering  her  mental  interior, 
struggling  to  come  out. 

Finally  she  spoke  with  deliberation,  without  taking  her 
eyes  off  the  gulf.  From  time  to  time  she  would  stop 
this  contemplation  in  order  to  fasten  her  eyes  on  Ulysses, 
measuring  the  effect  of  her  words.  He  stopped  occupy- 
ing himself  definitely  with  the  breakfast  tray,  foreseeing 
that  something  very  important  was  coming. 

"You  have  sworn  that  you  will  do  for  me  whatever  I 
ask  you  to  do.  .  .  .  You  do  not  wish  to  lose  me  for- 
ever." 

Ulysses  protested.  Lose  her?  .  .  .  He  could  not  live 
without  her. 

"I  know  your  former  life ;  you  have  told  me  all  about 
it.  ...  You  know  nothing  about  me  and  you  ought  to 
know  about  me — now  that  I  am  really  yours." 

The  sailor  nodded  his  head;  nothing  could  be  more 
just. 

"I  have  deceived  you,  Ulysses.    I  am  not  Italian." 

Ferragut  smiled.  If  that  was  all  the  deception  con- 
sisted of !  ...  From  the  day  in  which  they  had  spoken 
together  for  the  first  time  going  to  Psestum,  he  had 
guessed  that  what  she  had  told  him  about  her  nationality 
was  false. 

"My  mother  was  an  Italian.  I  swear  it.  ...  But  my 
father  was  not.  .  .  ." 

She  stopped  a  moment.  The  sailor  listened  to  her 
with  interest,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  table. 

"I  am  a  German  woman  and  .  ,  ." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SIN   OF  ULYSSES 

EVERY  morning  on  awaking  at  the  first  streak  of  dawn, 
Toni  felt  a  sensation  of  surprise  and  discouragement. 

"Still  in  Naples!"  he  would  say,  looking  through  the 
port-hole  of  his  cabin. 

Then  he  would  count  over  the  days.  Ten  had  passed 
by  since  the  Mare  Nostrum,  entirely  repaired,  had  an- 
chored in  the  commercial  harbor. 

"Twenty-four  hours  more,"  the  mate  would  add  men- 
tally. 

And  he  would  again  take  up  his  monotonous  life,  stroll- 
ing over  the  empty  and  silent  deck  of  the  vessel,  with- 
out knowing  what  to  do,  looking  despondently  at  the 
other  steamers  which  were  moving  their  freighting  an- 
tennae, swallowing  up  boxes  and  bundles  and  beginning 
to  send  out  through  their  chimneys  the  smoke  announc- 
ing departure. 

He  suffered  great  remorse  in  calculating  what  the 
boat  might  have  gained  were  it  now  under  way.  The 
advantage  was  all  for  the  captain,  but  he  could  not  avoid 
despairing  over  the  money  lost. 

The  necessity  of  communicating  his  impressions  to 
somebody,  of  protesting  in  chorus  against  this  lament- 
able inertia,  used  to  impel  him  toward  Caragol's  do- 
minions. In  spite  of  their  difference  in  rank,  the  first 
officer  always  treated  the  cook  with  affectionate  fa- 
miliarity. 

"An  abyss  is  separating  us !"  Toni  would  say  gravely. 

244 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  245 

This  "abyss"  was  a  metaphor  extracted  from  his 
reading  of  radical  papers  and  alluded  to  the  old  man's 
fervid  and  simple  beliefs.  But  their  common  affection 
for  the  captain,  all  being  from  the  same  land,  and  the  em- 
ployment of  the  Valencian  dialect  as  the  language  of 
intimacy,  made  the  two  seek  each  other's  company  in- 
stinctively. For  Toni,  Caragol  was  the  most  congenial 
spirit  aboard  .  .  .  after  himself. 

As  soon  as  he  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  galley,  sup- 
porting his  elbow  in  the  doorway  and  obstructing  the  sun- 
light with  his  body,  the  old  cook  would  reach  out  for 
his  bottle  of  brandy,  preparing  a  "refresco"  or  a  "cali- 
ente"  in  honor  of  his  visitor. 

They  would  drink  slowly,  interrupting  their  relish  of 
the  liquor  to  lament  together  the  immovability  of  the 
Mare  Nostrum.  They  would  count  up  the  cost  as 
though  the  boat  were  theirs.  While  it  was  being  re- 
paired, they  had  been  able  to  tolerate  the  captain's  con- 
duct. 

"The  English  always  pay,"  Toni  would  say.  "But  now 
nobody  is  paying  and  the  ship  isn't  earning  anything,  and 
we  are  spending  every  day.  .  .  .  About  how  much  are 
we  spending?" 

And  he  and  the  cook  would  again  calculate  in  detail 
the  cost  of  keeping  up  the  steamer,  becoming  terrified 
on  reaching  the  total.  One  day  without  moving  was 
costing  more  than  the  two  men  could  earn  in  a  month. 

"This  can't  go  on  1"  Toni  would  protest. 

His  indignation  took  him  ashore  several  times  in 
search  of  the  captain.  He  was  afraid  to  speak  to  him, 
considering  it  a  lack  of  discipline  to  meddle  in  the  man- 
agement of  the  boat,  so  he  invented  the  most  absurd 
pretext  in  order  to  run  afoul  of  Ferragut. 

He  looked  with  antipathy  at  the  porter  of  the  alb  ergo 
because  he  always  told  him  that  the  captain  had  just  gone 


246  MARE  NOSTRUM 

out.  This  individual  with  the  air  of  a  procurer  must  be 
greatly  to  blame  for  the  immovability  of  the  steamer; 
his  heart  told  him  so. 

Because  he  couldn't  come  to  blows  with  the  man,  and 
because  he  could  not  stand  seeing  him  laugh  deceitfully 
while  watching  him  wait  hour  after  hour  in  the  vesti- 
bule, he  took  up  his  station  in  the  street,  spying  on  Fer- 
ragut's  entrances  and  exits. 

The  three  times  that  he  did  succeed  in  speaking  with 
the  captain,  the  result  was  always  the  same.  The  cap- 
tain was  as  greatly  delighted  to  see  him  as  if  he  were  an 
apparition  from  the  past  with  whom  he  could  com- 
municate the  joy  of  his  overflowing  happiness. 

He  would  listen  to  his  mate,  congratulating  himself 
that  all  was  going  so  well  on  the  ship,  and  when  Toni, 
in  stuttering  tones,  would  venture  to  ask  the  date  of 
departure,  Ulysses  would  hide  {iis  uncertainty  under  a 
tone  of  prudence.  He  was  awaiting  a  most  valuable 
cargo ;  the  longer  they  waited  for  it,  the  more  money  they 
were  going  to  gain.  .  .  .  But  his  words  were  not  con- 
vincing to  Toni.  He  remembered  the  captain's  protests 
fifteen  days  before  over  the  lack  of  good  cargo  in  Na- 
ples, and  his  desire  to  leave  without  loss  of  time. 

Upon  returning  aboard,  the  mate  would  at  once  hunt 
Caragol,  and  both  would  comment  on  the  changes  in  their 
chief.  Toni  had  found  him  an  entirely  different  man, 
with  beard  shaved,  wearing  his  best  clothes,  and  display- 
ing in  the  arrangement  of  his  person  a  most  minute 
nicety,  a  decided  wish  to  please.  The  rude  pilot  had  even 
come  to  believe  that  he  had  detected,  while  talking  to 
him,  a  certain  feminine  perfume  like  that  of  their  blonde 
visitor. 

This  news  was  the  most  unbelievable  of  all  for  Caragol. 

"Captain  Ferragut  perfumed!  .  .  .  The  captain 
scented !  .  .  .  The  wretch !"  And  he  threw  up  his  arms, 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  247 

his  blind  eyes  seeking  the  brandy  bottles  and  the  oil 
flasks,  in  order  to  make  them  witnesses  of  his  indig- 
nation. 

The  two  men  were  entirely  agreed  as  to  the  cause  of 
their  despair.  She  was  to  blame  for  it  all ;  she  who  was 
going  to  hold  the  boat  spellbound  in  this  port  until  She 
knew  when,  with  the  irresistible  power  of  a  witch. 

"Ah,  these  females!  .  .  .  The  devil  always  follows 
after  petticoats  like  a  lap-dog.  .  .  .  They  are  the  ruina- 
tion of  our  life." 

And  the  wrathful  chastity  of  the  cook  continued 
hurling  against  womankind  insults  and  curses  equal  to 
those  of  the  first  fathers  of  the  church. 

One  morning  the  men  washing  down  the  deck  sent 
a  cry  passing  from  stem  to  stern, — ''The  captain !"  They 
saw  him  approaching  in  a  launch,  and  the  word  was 
passed  along  through  staterooms  and  corridors,  giving 
new  force  to  their  arms,  and  lighting  up  their  sluggish 
countenances.  The  mate  came  up  on  deck  and  Caragol 
stuck  his  head  out  through  the  door  of  his  kitchen. 

At  the  very  first  glance,  Toni  foresaw  that  something 
important  was  about  to  happen.  The  captain  had  a 
lively,  happy  air.  At  the  same  time,  he  saw  in  the  ex- 
aggerated amiability  of  his  smile  a  desire  to  conciliate 
them,  to  bring  sweetly  before  them  something  which  he 
considered  of  doubtful  acceptation. 

"Now  you'll  be  satisfied,"  said  Ferragut,  giving  his 
hand,  "we  are  going  to  weigh  anchor  soon." 

They  entered  the  saloon.  Ulysses  looked  around  his 
boat  with  a  certain  strangeness  as  though  returning  to 
it  after  a  long  voyage.  It  looked  different  to  him ;  cer- 
tain details  rose  up  before  his  eyes  that  had  never  at- 
tracted his  attention  before. 

He  recapitulated  in  a  lightning  cerebral  flash  all  that 
had  occurred  in  less  than  two  weeks.  For  the  first  time 


248  MARE  NOSTRUM 

he  realized  the  great  change  in  his  life  since  Freya  had 
come  to  the  steamer  in  search  of  him. 

He  saw  himself  in  his  room  in  the  hotel  opposite  her, 
dressed  like  a  man,  and  looking  out  over  the  gulf  while 
smoking. 

"I  am  a  German  woman,  and  .  .  ." 

Her  mysterious  life,  even  its  most  incomprehensible  de- 
tails, was  soon  to  be  explained. 

She  was  a  German  woman  in  the  service  of  her  coun- 
try. Modern  war  had  aroused  the  nations  en  masse;  it 
was  not  as  in  other  centuries,  a  clash  of  diminutive,  pro- 
fessional minorities  that  have  to  fight  as  a  business.  All 
vigorous  men  were  now  going  to  the  battlefield,  and  the 
others  were  working  in  industrial  centers  which  had  been 
converted  into  workshops  of  war.  And  this  general  ac- 
tivity was  also  taking  in  the  women  who  were  devot- 
ing their  labor  to  factories  and  hospitals,  or  their  intelli- 
gence on  the  other  side  of  the  frontiers,  to  the  service  of 
their  country. 

Ferragut,  surprised  by  this  outright  revelation,  re- 
mained silent,  but  finally  ventured  to  formulate  his 
thought. 

"According  to  that,  you  are  a  spy  ?"  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  word  with  contempt.  That  was  an 
antiquated  term  which  had  lost  its  primitive  significance. 
Spies  were  those  who  in  other  times, — when  only  the 
professional  soldiers  took  part  in  war, — had  mixed 
themselves  in  the  operations  voluntarily  or  for  money, 
surprising  the  preparations  of  the  enemy.  Nowadays, 
with  the  mobilization  of  the  nations  en  masse,  the  old 
official  spy — a  contemptible  and  villainous  creature,  dar- 
ing death  for  money — had  practically  disappeared. 
Nowadays  there  only  existed  patriots — anxious  to  work 
for  their  country,  some  with  weapons  in  their  hands, 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  249 

others  availing  themselves  of  their  astuteness,  or  exploit- 
ing the  qualities  of  their  sex. 

Ulysses  was  greatly  disconcerted  by  this  theory. 

'Then  the  doctor?  ...  he  again  questioned,  guessing 
what  the  imposing  dame  must  be. 

Freya  responded  with  an  expression  of  enthusiasm 
and  respect.  Her  friend  was  an  illustrious  patriot,  a  very 
learned  woman,  who  was  placing  all  her  faculties  at 
the  service  of  her  country.  She  adored  her.  She  was 
her  protector;  she  had  rescued  her  in  the  most  difficult 
moment  of  her  existence. 

"And  the  count?"  Ferragut  continued  asking. 

Here  the  woman  made  a  gesture  of  reserve. 

"He  also  is  a  great  patriot,  but  do  not  let  us  talk  about 
him." 

In  her  words  there  were  both  respect  and  fear.  He 
suspected  that  she  did  not  wish  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  this  haughty  personage. 

A  long  silence.  Freya,  as  if  fearing  the  effects  of  the 
captain's  meditations,  suddenly  cut  them  short  with  her 
headlong  chatter. 

The  doctor  and  she  had  come  from  Rome  to  take 
refuge  in  Naples,  fleeing  from  the  intrigues  and  mutter- 
ings  of  the  capital.  The  Italians  were  squabbling  among 
themselves;  some  were  partisans  of  the  war,  others  of 
neutrality;  none  of  them  wished  to  aid  Germany,  their 
former  ally. 

"We,  who  have  protected  them  so  much!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "False  and  ungrateful  race!  .  .  ." 

Her  gestures  and  her  words  recalled  to  Ulysses' 
mind  the  image  of  the  doctor,  execrating  the  Italian 
country  from  a  little  window  of  the  coach,  the  first  day 
that  they  had  talked  together. 

The  two  women  were  in  Naples,  whiling  away  their 


250  MARE  NOSTRUM 

tedious  waiting  with  trips  to  neighboring  places  of  in- 
terest, when  they  met  the  sailor. 

"I  have  a  very  pleasant  recollection  of  you,"  contin- 
ued Freya.  "I  guessed  from  the  very  first  instant  that 
our  friendship  was  going  to  terminate  as  it  has  ter- 
minated." 

She  read  a  question  in  his  glance. 

"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say  to  me.  You  won- 
der that  I  have  made  you  wait  so  long,  that  I  should 
have  made  you  suffer  so  with  my  caprices.  ...  It  was 
because  while  I  was  loving  you,  at  the  same  time  I  wished 
to  separate  myself  from  you.  You  represented  an  at- 
traction and  a  hindrance.  I  feared  to  mix  you  up  in 
my  affairs.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  need  to  be  free  in  order 
to  dedicate  myself  wholly  to  the  fulfillment  of  my  mis- 
sion." 

There  was  another  long  pause.  Freya's  eyes  were 
fixed  on  those  of  her  lover  with  scrutinizing  tenacity. 
She  wished  to  sound  the  depths  of  his  thoughts,  to  study 
the  ripeness  of  her  preparation — before  risking  the  de- 
cisive blow.  Her  examination  was  satisfactory. 

"And  now  that  you  know  me,"  she  said  with  painful 
slowness,  "begone!  .  .  .  You  cannot  love  me.  I  am 
a  spy,  just  as  you  say, — a  contemptible  being.  ...  I 
know  that  you  will  not  be  able  to  continue  loving  me 
after  what  I  have  revealed  to  you.  Take  yourself  away 
in  your  boat,  like  the  heroes  of  the  legends;  we  shall 
not  see  each  other  more.  All  our  intercourse  will  have 
been  a  beautiful  dream.  .  .  .  Leave  me  alone.  I  am 
ignorant  of  what  my  own  fate  may  be,  but  what  is  more 
important  to  me  is  your  tranquillity." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  threw  herself  face 
downward  on  the  divan,  hiding  her  face  in  her  arms, 
while  a  sobbing  outburst  set  all  the  adorable  curves  of 
her  back  a-tremble. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  251; 

Touched  by  her  grief,  Ulysses  at  the  same  time  ad- 
mired  Freya's  shrewdness  in  divining  all  his  thoughts. 
The  voice  of  good  counsel, — that  prudent  voice  that  al- 
ways spoke  in  one-half  of  his  brain  whenever  the  cap" 
tain  found  himself  in  difficult  situations, — had  begun 
to  cry  out,  scandalized  at  the  first  revelations  made  by 
this  woman: 

"Flee,  Ferragut !  .  .  .  Flee !  You  are  in  a  bad  fix. 
Do  not  agree  to  any  relations  with  such  people.  What 
have  you  to  do  with  the  country  of  this  adventuress? 
Why  should  you  encounter  dangers  for  a  cause  that  is 
of  no  importance  to  you  ?  What  you  wanted  of  her,  you 
already  have  gotten.  Be  an  egoist,  my  son!" 

But  the  voice  in  his  other  mental  hemisphere,  that 
boasting  and  idiotic  voice  which  always  impelled  him  to 
embark  on  vessels  bound  to  be  shipwrecked,  to  be  reck- 
less of  danger  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  putting  his  vigor 
to  the  proof,  also  gave  him  counsel.  It  was  a  villainous 
thing  to  abandon  a  woman.  Only  a  coward  would  do 
such  a  thing.  .  .  .  And  this  German  woman  appeared  to 
love  him  so  much!  .  .  . 

And  with  his  ardent,  meridional  exuberance,  he  em- 
braced her  and  lifted  her  up,  patting  the  loosened  ring- 
lets on  her  forehead,  petting  her  like  a  sick  child,  and 
drinking  in  her  tears  with  interminable  kisses. 

No;  he  would  not  abandon  her.  .  .  .  He  was  more 
disposed  to  defend  her  from  all  her  enemies.  He  did 
not  know  who  her  enemies  were,  but  if  she  needed  a 
man, — there  he  was.  .  .  . 

In  vain  his  inner  monitor  reviled  him  while  he  was 
making  such  offers ;  he  was  compromising  himself  blind- 
ly ;  perhaps  this  adventure  was  going  to  be  the  most  ter- 
rible in  his  history.  .  .  .  But  in  order  to  quiet  his  scru- 
ples, the  other  voice  kept  crying,  "You  are  a  gentleman ; 
and  a  gentleman  does  not  desert  a  lady,  through  fear,  a 


252  MARE  NOSTRUM 

few  hours  after  having  won  her  affection.     Forward, 
Captain !" 

An  excuse  of  cowardly  selfishness  arose  in  his 
thoughts,  fabricated  from  one  single  piece.  He  was  a 
Spaniard,  a  neutral,  in  no  way  involved  in  the  conflict  of 
the  Central  Powers.  His  second  had  often  spoken  to  him 
of  solidarity  of  race,  of  Latin  nations,  of  the  necessity  of 
putting  an  end  to  militarism,  of  going  to  war  in  order 
that  there  might  be  no  more  wars.  .  .  .  Mere  vaporings 
of  a  credulous  reader!  He  was  neither  English  nor 
French.  Neither  was  he  German;  but  the  woman  he 
loved  was,  and  he  was  not  going  to  give  her  up  for  any 
antagonisms  in  which  he  was  not  concerned. 

Freya  must  not  weep.  Her  lover  affirmed  repeatedly 
that  he  wished  to  live  forever  at  her  side,  that  he  was 
not  thinking  of  abandoning  her  because  of  what  she  had 
said:  and  he  even  pledged  his  word  of  honor  that  he 
•would  aid  her  in  everything  that  she  might  consider  pos- 
sible and  worthy  of  him. 

Thus  Captain  Ulysses  Ferragut  impetuously  decided 
his  destiny. 

When  his  beloved  again  took  him  to  the  doctor's  home, 
he  was  received  by  her  just  as  though  he  really  belonged 
to  the  family.  She  no  longer  had  to  hide  her  national- 
ity. Freya  simply  called  her  Frau  Doktor  and  she,  with 
the  glib  enthusiasm  of  the  professor,  finally  succeeded 
in  converting  the  sailor,  explaining  to  him  the  right  and 
reason  of  her  country's  entrance  into  war  with  half  of 
Europe. 

Poor  Germany  had  to  defend  herself.  The  Kaiser 
was  a  man  of  peace  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  for  many 
years  he  had  been  methodically  preparing  a  military  force 
capable  of  crushing  all  humanity.  All  the  other  nations 
had  driven  him  to  it ;  they  had  all  been  the  first  in  ag- 
gression. The  insolent  French,  long  before  the  war,  had 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  253 

been  sending  clouds  of  aeroplanes  over  German  cities, 
bombarding  them. 

Ferragut  blinked  with  surprise.  This  was  news  to 
him.  It  must  have  occurred  while  he  was  on  the  high 
seas.  The  verbose  positiveness  of  the  doctor  did  not 
permit  any  doubt  whatever.  .  .  .  Besides,  that  lady  ought 
to  know  better  than  those  who  lived  on  the  ocean. 

Then  had  arisen  the  English  provocation.  .  .  .  Like  a 
traitor  of  melodrama,  the  British  government  had  been 
preparing  the  war  for  a  long  time,  not  wishing  to  show 
its  hand  until  the  last  moment;  and  Germany,  lover  of 
peace,  had  had  to  defend  herself  from  this  enemy,  the 
worst  one  of  all. 

"God  will  punish  England !"  affirmed  the  doctor,  look- 
ing at  Ulysses. 

And  he  not  wishing  to  defraud  her  of  her  expecta- 
tions, gallantly  nodded  his  head.  .  .  .  For  all  he  cared, 
God  might  punish  England. 

But  in  expressing  himself  in  such  a  way,  he  felt  him- 
self agitated  by  a  new  duality.  The  English  had  been 
good  comrades ;  he  remembered  agreeably  his  voyages  as 
an  official  aboard  the  British  boats.  At  the  same  time, 
their  increasing  power,  invisible  to  the  men  on  shore, 
monstrous  for  those  who  were  living  on  the  sea,  had 
been  producing  in  him  a  certain  irritation.  He  was  ac- 
customed to  find  them  either  as  dominators  of  all  the  seas, 
or  else  solidly  installed  on  all  the  strategic  and  commer- 
cial coasts. 

The  doctor,  as  though  guessing  the  necessity  of  arous- 
ing his  hatred  of  the  great  enemy,  appealed  to  his  his- 
torical memories  :  Gibraltar,  stolen  by  the  English ;  the 
piracies  of  Drake;  the  galleons  of  America  seized  with 
methodical  regularity  by  the  British  .fleets;  the  landings 
on  the  coast  of  Spain  that  in  other  centuries  had  per- 
turbed the  life  of  the  peninsula.  England  at  the  begin- 


254  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ning  of  her  greatness  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  was  the 
size  of  Belgium;  if  she  had  made  herself  one  of  the  great 
powers,  it  was  at  the  cost  of  the  Spaniards  and  then  of 
Holland,  even  dominating  the  entire  world.  And  the 
doctor  spoke  in  English  and  with  so  much  vehemence 
about  England's  evil  deeds  against  Spain  that  the  im- 
pressionable sailor  ended  by  saying  spontaneously: 

"May  God  punish  her !" 

But  just  here  reappeared  the  Mediterranean  navigator, 
the  complicated  and  contradictory  Ulysses.  He  suddenly 
remembered  the  repairs  on  his  vessel  that  must  be  paid 
for  by  England. 

"May  God  punish  them  .  .  .  but  may  He  wait  a  little 
bit !"  he  murmured  in  his  thoughts. 

The  imposing  professor  became  greatly  exasperated 
when  speaking  of  the  land  in  which  she  was  living. 

"Mandolin  players !  Bandits !"  she  always  cried  when 
referring  to  the  Italians. 

How  much  they  owed  to  Germany!  The  Emperor 
Wilhelm  had  been  a  father  to  them.  All  the  world 
knew  that!  .  .  .  And  yet  when  the  war  was  breaking- 
out,  they  were  going  to  refuse  to  follow  their  old  friends. 
Now  German  diplomacy  must  busy  itself,  not  to  keep 
them  at  her  side,  but  to  prevent  their  going  with  the 
adversary.  Every  day  she  was  receiving  news  from 
Rome.  She  had  hoped  that  Italy  might  keep  herself 
neutral,  but  who  could  trust  the  word  of  such  people? 
.  .  .  And  she  repeated  her  wrathful  insults. 

The  sailor  immediately  adapted  himself  to  this  home, 
as  though  it  were  his  own.  On  the  few  occasions  that 
Freya  separated  herself  from  him,  he  used  to  go  in 
search  of  her  in  the  salon  of  the  imposing  dame  who  was 
now  assuming  toward  Ulysses  the  air  of  a  good-natured 
mother-in-law. 

In  various  visits  he  met  the  count.     This  taciturn 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  255 

personage  would  offer  his  hand  instinctively  thougti 
keeping  a  certain  distance  between  them.  Ulysses  now; 
knew  his  real  nationality,  and  he  knew  that  he  knew  it. 
But  the  two  kept  up  the  fiction  of  Count  Kaledine,  Rus- 
sian diplomat,  and  this  man  exacted  respect  from  every- 
one in  the  doctor's  dwelling.  Ferragut,  devoted  to  his 
amorous  selfishness,  was  not  permitting  himself  any  in- 
vestigation, adjusting  himself  to  the  hints  dropped  by  the 
two  women. 

He  had  never  known  such  happiness.  He  was  experi- 
encing the  great  sensuousness  of  one  who  finds  himself 
seated  at  table  in  a  well-warmed  dining-room  and  sees 
through  the  window  the  tempestuous  sea  tossing  a  bark 
that  is  struggling  against  the  waves. 

The  newsboys  were  crying  through  the  streets  ter- 
rible battles  in  the  center  of  Europe;  cities  were  burn- 
ing under  bombardment;  every  twenty-four  hours  thou- 
sands upon  thousands  of  human  beings  were  dying.  .  .  , 
And  he  was  not  reading  anything,  not  wishing  to  know 
anything.  He  was  continuing  his  existence  as  though 
he  were  living  in  a  paradisiacal  felicity.  Sometimes, 
while  waiting  for  Freya,  his  memory  would  gloat  over 
her  wonderful  physical  charm,  the  refinements  and  fresh 
sensations  which  his  passion  was  enjoying;  at  other 
times,  the  actual  embrace  with  its  ecstasy  blotted  out  and 
suppressed  all  unpleasant  possibilities. 

Something,  nevertheless,  suddenly  jerked  him  from  his 
amorous  egoism,  something  that  was  overshadowing  his 
visage,  furrowing  his  forehead  with  wrinkles  of  pre- 
occupation, and  making  him  go  aboard  his  vessel. 

When  seated  in  the  large  cabin  of  his  ship  opposite 
his  mate,  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  com- 
menced to  chew  on  a  great  cigar  that  had  just  gone  out. 

"We're  going  to  start  very  soon,"  he  repeated  with 


256  MARE  NOSTRUM 

visible  abstraction.  "You  will  be  glad,  Toni;  I  be- 
lieve that  you  will  be  delighted." 

Toni  remained  impassive.  He  was  waiting  for  some- 
thing more.  The  captain  in  starting  on  a  voyage  had 
always  told  him  the  port  of  destiny  and  the  special  na- 
ture of  the  cargo.  Therefore,  noting  that  Ferragut  did 
not  want  to  add  anything  more,  he  ventured  to  ask: 

"Is  it  to  Barcelona  that  we  are  going?'* 

Ulysses  hesitated,  looking  toward  the  door,  as  though 
fearing  to  be  overheard.  Then  he  leaned  over  toward 
Toni. 

The  voyage  was  going  to  be  one  without  any  danger, 
but  one  which  must  be  shrouded  in  mystery. 

"I  am  counting  on  you,  because  you  know  all  my 
affairs,  because  I  consider  you  as  one  of  my  family." 

The  pilot  did  not  appear  to  be  touched  with  this  sample 
of  confidence.  He  still  remained  impassive,  though 
within  him  all  the  uneasiness  that  had  been  agitating  him 
in  former  days  was  reawakening. 

The  captain  continued  talking.  These  were  war  times 
and  it  was  necessary  to  take  advantage  of  them.  For 
those  two  it  would  not  be  any  novelty  to  transport  car- 
goes of  military  material.  Once  he  had  carried  from 
Europe  arms  and  munitions  for  a  revolution  in  South 
America.  Toni  had  recounted  to  him  his  adventures  in 
the  Gulf  of  California,  in  command  of  a  little  schooner 
which  had  served  as  a  transport  to  the  insurrectionists 
of  the  southern  provinces  in  the  revolt  against  the  Mexi- 
can government. 

But  the  mate,  while  nodding  his  head  affirmatively,  was 
at  the  same  time  looking  at  him  with  questioning  eyes. 
What  were  they  going  to  transport  on  this  trip?  .  .  . 

"Toni,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  artillery  nor  of  guns. 
Neither  is  it  an  affair  of  munitions.  ,  .  It  is  a  short 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  257 

and  well-paid  job  that  will  make  us  go  very  little  out 
of  our  way  on  our  return  to  Barcelona." 

He  stopped  himself  in  his  confidences,  feeling  a  curi- 
ous hesitation  and  finally  he  added,  lowering  his  voice: 

"The  Germans  are  paying  for  it !  ...  We  are  going 
to  supply  their  Mediterranean  submarines  with  petrol." 

Contrary  to  all  Ferragut's  expectations,  his  second  did 
not  make  any  gesture  of  surprise.  He  remained  as  im- 
passive as  if  this  news  were  actually  incomprehensible  to 
him.  Then  he  smiled  lightly,  shrugging  his  shoulders  as 
though  he  had  heard  something  absurd.  .  .  .  The  Ger- 
mans, perhaps,  had  submarines  in  the  Mediterranean?  It 
was  likely,  was  it,  that  one  of  these  navigating  machines 
would  be  able  to  make  the  long  crossing  from  the  North 
Sea  to  the  Strait  of  Gibraltar  ?  .  .  . 

He  knew  all  about  the  great  atrocities  that  the  subma- 
rines were  causing  in  the  vicinity  of  England,  but  in  a 
greatly  reduced  zone  in  the  limited  radius  of  action  of 
which  they  were  capable.  The  Mediterranean,  fortu- 
nately for  the  merchant  vessels,  was  quite  beyond  the 
range  of  their  treacherous  lying-in-wait. 

Ferragut  interrupted  with  his  meridional  vehemence. 
Beside  himself  with  passion,  he  was  already  beginning 
to  express  himself  as  though  the  doctor  were  speaking 
through  his  mouth. 

"You  are  referring  to  the  submarines,  Toni,  to  the  lit- 
tle submarines  that  were  in  existence  at  the  beginning 
of  the  war — little  grasshoppers  of  fragile  steel  that 
moved  with  great  difficulty  when  on  a  level  with  the  water 
and  might  be  overwhelmed  at  the  slightest  shock.  .  .  . 
But  to-day  there  is  something  more :  there  is  a  submersi- 
ble that  is  like  a  submarine  protected  by  a  ship's  hull 
which  is  able  to  go  hidden  between  the  two  waters  and, 
at  the  same  time,  can  navigate  over  the  surface  better 
than  a  torpedo-boat.  .  .  .  You  have  no  idea  what  these 


258  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Germans  are  capable  of!  They  are  a  great  nation,  the 
finest  in  the  world!  .  .  ." 

And  with  impulsive  exaggeration,  he  insisted  in  pro- 
claiming German  greatness  and  its  inventive  spirit  as 
though  he  had  some  share  in  this  mechanical  and  destruc- 
tive glory. 

Then  he  added  confidentially,  placing  his  hand  on 
Toni's  arm: 

"I'm  going  to  tell  it  only  to  you :  you  are  the  only  per- 
son who  knows  the  secret,  aside  from  those  who  have 
told  it  to  me.  .  .  .  The  German  submersibles  are  going 
to  enter  the  Mediterranean.  We  are  going  to  meet  them 
in  order  to  renew  their  supplies  of  oil  and  combustibles." 

He  became  silent,  looking  fixedly  at  his  subordinate, 
and  smiling  in  order  to  conquer  his  scruples. 

For  two  seconds  he  did  not  know  what  to  expect. 
Toni  was  remaining  pensive  with  downcast  eyes.  Then, 
little  by  little,  he  drew  himself  erect,  abandoned  his  seat, 
and  said  simply: 

"No!" 

Ulysses  also  left  his  revolving  chair  with  the  impulsive- 
ness of  surprise.  "No?  .  .  .  And  why  not?" 

He  was  the  captain  and  they  all  ought  to  obey  him. 
For  that  reason  he  was  responsible  for  the  boat,  for  the 
life  of  its  crew,  for  the  fate  of  the  cargo.  Besides,  he 
was  the  proprietor ;  no  one  exceeded  him  in  command ;  his 
power  was  unlimited.  Through  friendly  affection  and 
custom,  he  had  consulted  his  mate,  making  him  share 
in  his  secrets  and  here  Toni,  with  an  ingratitude  never 
seen  before,  was  daring  to  rebel.  .  .  .  What  did  this 
mean?  .  .  . 

But  the  mate,  instead  of  giving  any  explanation,  merely 
confined  himself  to  answering,  each  time  more  obstinately 
and  wrathfully : 

"No!  .      .  No!" 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  259 

"But  why  not?"  insisted  Ferragut,  waxing  impatient 
and  in  a  voice  trembling  with  anger. 

Toni,  without  losing  energy  in  his  negatives,  was  hesi- 
tating,— confused,  bewildered,  scratching  his  beard,  and 
lowering  his  eyes  in  order  to  reflect  better. 

He  did  not  know  just  how  to  explain  himself.  He 
envied  his  captain's  facility  in  finding  just  the  right 
word.  The  simplest  of  his  ideas  suffered  terribly  be- 
fore coming  anxiously  from  his  mouth.  .  .  .  But,  finally, 
little  by  little,  between  his  stutterings,  he  managed  to  ex- 
press his  hatred  of  those  monsters  of  modern  industry 
which  were  dishonoring  the  sea  with  their  crimes. 

Each  time  that  he  had  read  in  the  newspapers  of  their 
exploits  in  the  North  Sea  a  wave  had  passed  over  the 
conscience  of  this  simple,  frank  and  upright  man.  They 
were  accustomed  to  attack  treacherously  hidden  in  the 
water,  disguising  their  long  and  murderous  eyes  like  the 
visual  antennae  of  the  monsters  of  the  deep.  This  ag- 
gression without  danger  appeared  to  revive  in  his  soul 
the  outraged  souls  of  a  hundred  Mediterranean  ances- 
tors, cruel  and  piratical  perhaps,  but  who,  nevertheless, 
had  sought  the  enemy  face  to  face  with  naked  breast, 
battle-axe  in  hand,  and  the  barbed  harpoon  for  boarding 
ship  as  their  only  means  of  struggle. 

"If  they  would  torpedo  only  the  armed  vessels!"  he 
added.  "War  is  a  form  of  savagery,  and  it  is  necessary 
to  shut  the  eyes  to  its  treacherous  blows,  accepting  them 
as  glorious  achievements.  .  .  .  But  there  is  something 
more  than  that :  you  know  it  well.  They  sink  merchant 
vessels,  and  passenger  ships  carrying  women,  carrying 
little  children.  .  .  ." 

His  weather-beaten  cheeks  assumed  the  color  of  a 
baked  brick.  His  eyes  flashed  with  a  bluish  splendor. 
He  was  feeling  the  same  wrath  that  he  had  experienced 


2<5o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

when  reading  the  accounts  of  the  first  torpedoing  of  the 
great  transatlantic  steamer  on  the  coast  of  England. 

He  was  seeing  the  defenseless  and  peaceable  throng 
crowding  to  the  boats  that  were  capsizing;  the  women 
throwing  themselves  into  the  sea  with  children  in  their 
arms;  all  the  deadly  confusion  of  a  catastrophe.  .  .  . 
Then  the  submarine  arising  to  contemplate  its  work ;  the 
Germans  grouped  on  the  decks  of  dripping  steel,  laugh- 
ing and  joking,  satisfied  with  the  rapid  result  of  their  la- 
bors ;  and  for  a  distance  of  many  miles  the  sea  was  filled 
with  black  bulks  dragged  slowly  along  by  the  waves — men 
floating  on  their  backs,  immovable,  with  their  glassy 
eyes  fixed  on  the  sky ;  children  with  their  fair  hair  cling- 
ing like  masks  to  their  livid  face;  corpses  of  mothers 
pressing  to  their  bosom  with  cold  rigidity  little  corpses 
of  babies,  assassinated  before  they  could  even  know  what 
life  might  mean. 

When  reading  the  account  of  these  crimes,  Toni  had 
naturally  thought  of  his  own  wife  and  children,  imagining 
what  their  condition  might  have  been  on  that  steamer, 
experiencing  the  same  fate  as  its  innocent  passengers. 
This  imagination  had  made  him  feel  so  intense  a  wrath 
that  he  even  mistrusted  his  own  self-control  on  the  day 
that  he  should  again  encounter  German  sailors  in  any 
port.  .  .  .  And  Ferragut,  an  honorable  man,  a  good  cap- 
tain whose  praises  every  one  was  sounding,  could  he 
possibly  aid  in  transplanting  such  horrors  as  these  to  the 
Mediterranean?  .  .  . 

Poor  Toni!  .  .  .  He  did  not  know  how  to  express 
himself  properly,  but  the  very  possibility  that  his  beloved 
sea  might  witness  such  crimes  gave  new  vehemence  to 
his  indignation.  The  soul  of  Doctor  Ferragut  appeared 
to  be  reviving  in  this  rude  Mediterranean  sailor.  He  had 
never  seen  the  white  Amphitrite,  but  he  trembled  for  her 
with  a  religious  fervor,  without  even  knowing  her.  Was 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  261 

the  luminous  blue  from  which  had  arisen  the  early  gods 
to  be  dishonored  by  the  oily  spot  that  would  disclose 
assassination  en  masse  /  .  .  .  Were  the  rosy  strands  from 
whose  foam  Venus  had  sprung  to  receive  clusters  of 
corpses,  impelled  by  the  waves!  .  .  .  Were  the  sea-gull 
wings  of  the  fishing-boats  to  flee  panic-stricken  before 
those  gray  sharks  of  steel!  .  .  .  Were  his  family  and 
neighbors  to  be  terrified,  on  awakening,  by  this  floating 
cemetery  washed  to  their  doors  during  the  night !  .  .  . 

He  was  thinking  all  this,  he  was  seeing  it;  but  not 
succeeding  in  expressing  it,  so  he  limited  himself  to  in- 
sisting upon  his  protest : 

"No !  .  .  .  I  won't  tolerate  it  in  our  sea !" 

Ferragut,  in  spite  of  his  impetuous  character,  now 
adopted  a  conciliatory  tone  like  that  of  a  father  who 
wishes  to  convince  his  scowling  and  stubborn  son. 

The  German  submersibles  would  confine  themselves, 
in  the  Mediterranean,  to  military  actions  only.  There 
was  no  danger  of  their  attacking  defenseless  barks 
as  in  the  northern  seas.  Their  drastic  exploits  there  had 
been  imposed  by  circumstances,  by  the  sincere  desire  of 
terminating  the  war  as  quickly  as  possible,  by  giving 
terrifying  and  unheard-of  blows. 

"I  assure  you  that  in  our  sea  there  will  be  nothing  of 
that  sort.  People  who  ought  to  know  have  told  me  so. 
...  If  that  had  not  been  the  case,  I  should  not  have 
promised  to  give  them  aid." 

He  affirmed  this  several  times  in  good  faith,  with  abso- 
lute confidence  in  the  people  who  had  given  him  their 
promise. 

"They  will  sink,  if  they  can,  the  ships  of  the  Allies 
that  are  in  the  Dardanelles.  But  what  does  that  matter 
to  us  ?  .  .  .  That  is  war !  When  we  were  carrying  can- 
nons and  guns  to  the  revolutionists  in  South  America 


262  MARE  NOSTRUM 

we  did  not  trouble  ourselves  about  the  use  which  they 
might  make  of  them,  did  we?" 

Toni  persisted  in  his  negative. 

"It  is  not  the  same  thing.  ...  I  don't  know  how  to 
express  myself,  but  it  is  not  the  same.  There,  cannon 
can  be  answered  by  cannon.  He  who  strikes  also  re- 
ceives blows.  .  .  .  But  to  aid  the  submarines  is  a  very 
different  thing.  They  attack,  hidden,  without  danger. 
.  .  .  And  I,  for  my  part,  do  not  like  treachery." 

Finally  his  mate's  insistence  exasperated  Ferragut,  ex- 
hausting his  enforced  good  nature. 

"We  will  say  no  more  about  it,"  he  said  haughtily. 
"I  am  the  captain  and  I  command  as  I  see  fit.  ...  I  have 
given  my  promise,  and  I  am  not  going  to  break  it  just  to 
please  you.  .  .  .  We  have  finished." 

Toni  staggered  as  though  he  had  just  received  a  blow 
on  the  breast.  His  eyes  shone  again,  becoming  moist. 
After  a  long  period  of  reflection,  he  held  out  his  shaggy 
right  hand  to  the  captain. 

"Good-by,  Ulysses!  .  .  ." 

He  could  not  obey,  and  a  sailor  who  takes  disrespectful 
exception  to  the  orders  of  his  chief  must  leave  the  ship. 
In  no  other  boat  could  he  ever  live  as  in  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum. Perhaps  he  might  not  get  another  job,  perhaps 
the  other  captains  might  not  like  him,  considering  him 
to  have  grown  too  habituated  to  excessive  familiarity. 
But,  if  it  should  be  necessary,  he  would  again  become 
the  skipper  of  a  little  coast-trader.  .  .  .  Good-by!  He 
would  not  sleep  on  board  that  night. 

Ferragut  was  very  indignant,  even  yelling  angrily: 

"But,  don't  be  such  a  barbarian!  .  .  .  What  a  stub- 
born fool  you  are!  .  .  .  What  do  these  exaggerated 
scruples  amount  to?  .  .  ." 

Then  he  smiled  malignly  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  "You 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  263 

Icnow  already  what  we  know,  and  I  know  very  well  that 
in  your  youth  you  carried  contraband." 

Toni  drew  himself  up  haughtily.  Now  it  was  he  who 
was  indignant. 

"I  have  carried  contraband,  yes.  And  what  is  there 
astonishing  about  that?  .  .  .  Your  grandparents  did  the 
same  thing.  There  is  not  a  single  honorable  sailor  on  our 
sea  who  has  not  committed  this  little  offense.  .  .  .  Who 
is  the  worse  for  that?  .  .  ." 

The  only  one  who  could  complain  was  the  State,  a 
vague  personality  whose  whereabouts  and  place  nobody 
knew  and  who  daily  experienced  a  million  of  similar  vio- 
lations. In  the  custom-houses  Toni  had  seen  the  richest 
tourists  eluding  the  vigilance  of  the  employees  in  order 
to  evade  an  insignificant  payment.  Every  one  down  in 
his  heart  was  a  smuggler.  .  .  .  Besides,  thanks  to  these 
fraudulent  navigators,  the  poor  were  able  to  smoke  better 
and  more  cheaply.  Whom  were  they  assassinating  with 
their  business?  .  .  .  How  did  Ferragut  dare  to  compare 
these  evasions  of  the  law  which  never  did  anybody  any 
harm  with  the  job  of  aiding  submarine  pirates  in  con- 
tinuing their  crimes?  .  .  . 

The  captain,  disarmed  by  this  simple  logic,  now  ap- 
pealed to  his  powers  of  persuasion. 

"Toni,  at  least  you  will  do  it  for  me.  Do  it  for  my 
sake.  We  shall  continue  friends  as  we  have  always 
been.  On  some  other  occasion  I'll  sacrifice  myself. 
Think.  ...  I  have  given  my  word  of  honor." 

And  the  mate,  although  much  touched  by  his  pleadings, 
replied  dolefully: 

"I  cannot.  ...  I  cannot !" - 

He  was  anxious  to  say  something  more  to  round  out 
his  thought,  and  added : 

"I'm  a  Republican.   ..." 

This  profession  of  faith  he  brought  forward  as  an 


264  MARE  NOSTRUM 

insurmountable  barrier,  striking  himself  at  the  same  time 
on  the  breast,  in  order  to  prove  the  hardness  of  the  ob- 
stacle. 

Ulysses  felt  tempted  to  laugh,  as  he  had  always  done, 
at  Toni's  political  affirmations.  But  the  situation  was 
not  one  for  joking,  and  he  continued  talking  in  the  hope 
of  convincing  him. 

He  had  always  loved  liberty  and  been  on  the  side  op- 
posed to  despotism!  .  .  .  England  was  the  great  tyrant 
of  the  sea;  she  had  provoked  the  war  in  order  to 
strengthen  her  jurisdiction  and  if  she  should  achieve  the 
victory,  her  haughtiness  would  have  no  limit.  Poor  Ger- 
many had  done  nothing  more  than  defend  herself.  .  .  . 
Ferragut  repeated  all  that  he  had  heard  in  the  doctor's 
home,  winding  up  in  a  tone  of  reproach : 

"And  are  you  on  the  side  of  the  English,  Toni?  You,, 
a  man  of  advanced  ideas?  .  .  ." 

The  pilot  scratched  his  beard  with  an  expression  of 
perplexity,  searching  for  the  elusive  words.  He  knew 
what  he  ought  to  say.  He  had  read  it  in  the  writings  of 
gentlemen  who  knew  quite  as  much  as  his  captain;  be- 
sides, he  had  thought  a  great  deal  about  this  matter  in  his 
solitary  pacing  on  the  bridge. 

"I  am  where  I  ought  to  be.    I  am  with  France.  .  .  ." 

He  expressed  this  thought  sluggishly,  with  stutterings 
and  half-formed  words.  France  was  the  country  of  the 
great  Revolution,  and  for  that  reason  he  considered  it 
as  something  to  which  he  belonged,  uniting  its  faith  with 
that  of  his  own  person. 

"And  I  do  not  need  to  say  more.    As  to  England  .  .  ." 

Here  he  made  a  pause  like  one  who  rests  and  gathers 
all  his  forces  together  for  a  difficult  leap. 

"There  always  has  to  be  one  nation  on  top,"  he  con- 
tinued. "We  hardly  amount  to  anything  at  present  and, 
according  to  what  I  have  read,  Spain  was  once  mistress 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  265 

of  the  entire  world  for  a  century  and  a  half.  Once  we 
were  everywhere ;  now  we  are  in  the  soup.  Then  came 
France's  turn.  Now  it  is  England's.  ...  It  doesn't 
bother  me  that  one  nation  places  itself  above  the  rest. 
The  thing  that  interests  me  is  what  that  nation  repre- 
sents,— the  fashion  it  will  set." 

Ferragut  was  concentrating  his  attention  in  order  to 
comprehend  what  Toni  wished  to  say. 

"If  England  triumphs,"  the  pilot  continued,  "Liberty 
will  be  the  fashion.  What  does  their  haughtiness  amount 
to  with  me,  if  there  always  has  to  be  one  dominating 
nation?  .  .  .  The  nations  will  surely  copy  the  victor. 
.  .  .  England,  so  they  say,  is  really  a  republic  that  pre- 
fers to  pay  for  the  luxury  of  a  king  for  its  grand  cere- 
monials. With  her,  peace  would  be  inevitable,  the  gov- 
ernment managed  by  the  people,  the  disappearance  of 
the  great  armies,  the  true  civilization.  If  Germany 
triumphs,  we  shall  live  as  though  we  were  in  barracks. 
Militarism  will  govern  everything.  We  shall  bring .  up 
our  children,  not  that  they  may  enjoy  life,  but  that  they 
may  become  soldiers  and  go  forth  to  kill  from  their  very 
youth.  Might  as  the  only  Right,  that  is  the  German 
method, — a  return  to  barbarous  times  under  the  mask 
of  civilization." 

He  was  silent  an  instant,  as  though  mentally  re- 
capitulating all  that  he  had  said  in  order  to  convince 
himself  that  he  had  not  left  any  forgotten  idea  in  the 
corners  of  his  cranium.  Again  he  struck  himself  on  the 
breast.  Yes,  he  was  where  he  ought  to  be,  and  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  obey  his  captain. 

"I  am  a  Republican!  .  .  .  I  am  a  Republican!"  he 
repeated  energetically,  as  though  having  said  that,  there 
was  nothing  more  to  add. 

Ferragut,  not  knowing  how  to  answer  this  simple  and 
solid  enthusiasm,  gave  way  to  his  temper. 


266  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Get  out,  you  brute!  ...  I  don't  want  to  see  you 
again,  ungrateful  wretch !  I  shall  do  the  thing  alone ;  I 
don't  need  you.  It  is  enough  for  me  to  take  my  boat 
where  it  pleases  me  and  to  follow  out  my  own  pleasure. 
Be  off  with  all  the  old  lies  with  which  you  have  crammed 
your  cranium.  .  .  .  You  blockhead!" 

His  wrath  made  him  fall  into  his  armchair,  swinging 
his  back  toward  the  mate,  hiding  his  head  in  his  hands, 
in  order  to  make  him  understand  that  with  this  scornful 
silence  everything  between  them  had  come  to  an  end. 

Toni's  eyes,  growing  constantly  more  distended  and 
glassy,  finally  released  a  tear.  .  .  .  To  separate  thus, 
after  a  fraternal  life  in  which  the  months  were  like 
years!  .  .  . 

He  advanced  timidly  in  order  to  take  possession  of 
one  of  Ferragut's  soft,  inert,  inexpressive  hands.  Its 
cold  contact  made  him  hesitate.  He  felt  inclined  to 
yield.  .  .  .  But  immediately  he  blotted  out  this  weakness 
with  a  firm,  crisp  tone: 

"Good-by,  Ulysses!  .  .  ." 

The  captain  did  not  answer,  letting  him  go  away 
without  the  slightest  word  of  farewell.  The  mate  was 
already  near  the  door  when  he  stopped  to  say  to  him 
with  a  sad  and  affectionate  expression: 

"Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  say  anything  about  this  to 
anybody.  .  .  .  Everything  remains  between  us  two.  I 
will  make  up  some  excuse  in  order  that  those  aboard 
will  not  be  surprised  at  my  going." 

He  hesitated  as  though  he  were  afraid  to  appear  im- 
portunate, but  he  added: 

"I  advise  you  not  to  undertake  that  trip.  I  know  how 
our  men  feel  about  these  matters;  you  can't  rely  upon 
them.  Even  Uncle  Caragol,  who  only  concerns  himself 
with  his  galley,  will  criticize  you.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  will 
obey  you  because  you  are  the  captain,  but  when  they 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  267 

go  ashore,  you  will  not  be  the  master  of  their  silence. 
.  .  .  Believe  me;  do  not  attempt  it.  You  are  going  to 
disgrace  yourself.  You  well  know  for  what  cause.  .  .  . 
Good-by,  Ulysses!" 

When  the  captain  raised  his  head  the  pilot  had  already 
disappeared  and  solitude,  with  its  deadly  burden,  soon 
weighed  upon  his  thoughts.  He  felt  afraid  to  carry  out 
his  plans  without  Toni's  aid.  It  appeared  to  him  that 
the  chain  of  authority  which  united  him  to  his  men  had 
been  broken.  The  mate  was  carrying  away  a  part  of  the 
prestige  that  Ferragut  exercised  over  the  crew.  How 
could  he  explain  his  disappearance  on  the  eve  of  an 
illegal  voyage  which  exacted  such  great  secrecy?  How 
could  he  rely  upon  the  silence  of  everybody?  .  .  .  He 
remained  pensive  a  long  time,  then  suddenly  leaping  up 
from  his  armchair,  he  went  out  on  deck,  shouting  to 
the  seamen: 

"Where  is  Don  Antonio?  Go  find  him.  Call  him  for 
me." 

"Don  Antoni!  .  .  .  Don  Antoni!  .  .  ."  replied  a  string 
of  voices  from  poop  to  prow,  while  Uncle  Caragol's  head 
poked  itself  out  of  the  door  of  his  dominions. 

"Don  Antoni"  appeared  through  the  hatchway.  He  had 
been  going  all  over  the  boat,  after  taking  leave  of  his 
captain.  Ferragut  received  him  with  averted  face,  avoid- 
ing his  glance,  and  with  a  complex  and  contradictory 
gesture.  He  felt  angry  at  being  vanquished  and  the 
shame  of  weakness  yet,  allied  to  these  sensations,  was  the 
instinctive  gratitude  which  one  experiences  upon  being 
freed  from  an  unwise  step  by  a  violent  hand  which  mis- 
treats and  saves. 

"You  are  to  remain,  Toni!"  he  said  in  a  dull  voice. 
"There  is  nothing  to  say.  I  will  redeem  my  word  as 
best  I  can.  .  .  .  To-morrow  you  shall  know  certainly 
what  we  are  going  to  do." 


268  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  solar  face  of  Caragol  was  beaming  beatifically 
without  seeing  anything,  without  hearing  anything.  He 
had  suspected  something  serious  in  the  captain's  arrival, 
his  long  interview  alone  with  the  mate,  and  the  departure 
of  the  latter  passing  silent  and  scowling  before  the  door 
of  his  galley.  Now  the  same  presentiment  advised  him 
that  a  reconciliation  between  the  two  men  whose  figures 
he  could  only  distinguish  confusedly,  must  have  taken 
place.  Blessed  be  the  Christ  of  the  Grao!  .  .  .  And 
upon  learning  that  the  captain  would  remain  aboard  until 
afternoon,  he  set  himself  to  the  confection  of  one  of  his 
masterly  rice-dishes  in  order  to  solemnize  the  return  of 
peace. 

A  little  before  sunset  Ulysses  again  found  himself  with 
his  mistress  in  the  hotel.  He  had  returned  to  land,  nerv- 
ous and  uneasy.  His  uneasiness  made  him  fear  this  in- 
terview while  at  the  same  time  he  wished  it. 

"Out  with  it!  I  am  not  a  child  to  feel  such  fears," 
he  said  to  himself  upon  entering  his  room  and  rinding 
Freya  awaiting  him. 

He  spoke  to  her  with  the  brusqueness  of  one  who 
wishes  to  conclude  everything  quickly.  ...  "I  could  not 
undertake  the  service  that  the  doctor  asked.  I  take  back 
my  word.  The  mate  on  board  would  not  consent  to 
it/' 

Her  wrath  burst  forth  without  any  finesse,  with  the 
frankness  of  intimancy.  She  always  hated  Toni.  "Hide- 
ous old  faun!  .  .  ."  From  the  very  first  moment  she 
had  suspected  that  he  would  prove  an  enemy. 

"But  you  are  master  of  your  own  boat,"  she  con- 
tinued. "You  can  do  what  you  want  to,  and  you  don't 
need  his  permission  to  sail." 

When  Ulysses  furthermore  said  that  he  was  not  sure 
of  his  crew  either,  and  that  the  voyage  was  impossible, 
the  woman  again  became  furious  at  him.  She  appeared 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  269 

to  have  grown  suddenly  ten  years  older.  To  the  sailor 
she  seemed  to  have  another  face,  of  an  ashy  pallor,  with 
furrowed  brows,  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears,  and  a  light 
foam  in  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Braggart.  .  .  .  Fraud.  .  .  .  Southerner!    Meridional!" 

Ulysses  tried  to  calm  her.  It  might  be  possible  to  find 
another  boat.  He  would  try  to  help  them  find  another. 
He  was  going  to  send  the  Mare  Nostrum  to  await  him 
in  Barcelona,  and  he  himself  would  stay  in  Naples,  just 
as  long  as  she  wished  him  to. 

"Buffoon !  .  .  .  And  I  believed  in  you !  And  I  yielded 
myself  to  you,  believing  you  to  be  a  hero,  believing  your 
offer  of  sacrifice  to  be  the  truth!  .  .  ." 

She  marched  off,  furious,  giving  the  door  a  spiteful 
slam. 

"She  is  going  to  see  the  doctor,"  thought  Ferragut. 
"It  is  all  over." 

He  regretted  the  loss  of  this  woman,  even  after  hav- 
ing seen  her  in  her  tragic  and  fleeting  ugliness.  At  the 
same  time,  the  injurious  word,  the  cutting  insults  with 
which  she  had  accompanied  her  departure  caused  sharp 
pain.  He  already  was  tired  and  sick  of  hearing  himself 
called  "meridional,"  as  though  it  were  a  stigma. 

Yet  he  rather  relished  his  enforced  happiness,  the 
sensation  of  false  liberty  which  every  enamored  person 
feels  after  a  quarrelsome  break.  "Now  to  live  again! 
.  .  ."  He  wished  to  return  at  once  to  the  ship,  but  feared 
a  revival  of  the  memories  evoked  by  silence.  It  would 
be  better  to  remain  in  Naples,  to  go  to  the  theater,  to 
trust  to  the  luck  of  some  chance  encounter  just  as  when 
he  used  to  come  ashore  for  a  few  hours.  The  next 
morning  he  would  leave  the  hotel,  with  all  his  baggage, 
and  before  sunset  he  would  be  sailing  the  open  sea. 

He  ate  outside  of  the  albergo,  and  he  passed  the  night 
elbowing  women  in  cabarets  where  an  insipid  variety 


270  MARE  NOSTRUM 

show  served  as  a  pretext  to  disguise  the  baser  object. 
The  recollection  of  Freya,  fresh-looking  and  gay,  kept 
rising  between  him  and  those  painted  mouths  every  time 
that  they  smiled  upon  him,  trying  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  went  up  the  hotel 
stairway,  surprised  at  seeing  a  ray  of  light  underneath 
the  door  of  his  room.  He  entered.  .  .  .  She  was  await- 
ing him — reading,  tranquil  and  smiling.  Her  face,  re- 
freshed and  retouched  with  juvenile  color,  did  not  show 
the  slightest  trace  of  the  morning's  spasmodic  outbreak. 
She  was  clad  in  pyjamas. 

Seeing  Ulysses  enter,  she  arose  with  outstretched 
arms. 

"Tell  me  that  you  are  not  still  angry  with  me!  .  .  . 
Tell  me  that  you  will  forgive  me!  ...  I  was  very 
naughty  toward  you  this  afternoon,  I  admit  it." 

She  was  embracing  him,  rubbing  her  mouth  against 
his  neck  with  a  feline  purr.  Before  the  captain  could 
respond  she  continued  with  a  childish  voice: 

"My  shark!  My  sea-wolf! — who  has  made  me  wait 
all  these  hours!  .  .  .  Swear  to  me  that  you  have  not 
been  unfaithful!  ...  I  can  perceive  at  once  the  trace 
of  another  woman." 

Sniffing  his  beard  and  face,  her  mouth  approached  the 
sailor's. 

"No,  you  have  not  been  unfaithful.  ...  I  still  find 
my  own  perfume.  .  .  .  Oh,  Ulysses!  My  hero!  .  .  ." 

She  kissed  him  with  that  absorbing  kiss,  which  ap- 
peared to  take  all  the  life  from  him,  obscuring  his 
thoughts  and  annulling  his  will-power,  making  him  trem- 
ble from  head  to  foot.  All  was  forgotten, — offenses, 
slights,  plans  of  departure.  .  .  .  And,  as  usual,  he  fell, 
conquered  by  that  vampire  caress. 

In  the  darkness  he  heard  Freya's  gentle  voice.     She 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  271 

was  recapitulating  what  they  had  not  said,  but  what  the 
two  were  thinking  of  at  the  same  time. 

"The  doctor  believes  that  you  ought  to  remain.  Let 
your  boat  go  with  its  hideous  old  faun,  who  is  nothing 
but  a  drawback.  You  are  to  remain  here,  on  land.  .  .  . 
You  will  be  able  to  do  us  a  great  favor.  .  .  .  You  know 
you  will ;  you  will  remain  ?  .  .  .  What  happiness !" 

Ferragut's  destiny  was  to  obey  this  idolized  and 
dominating  voice.  .  .  .  And  the  following  morning  Toni 
saw  him  approaching  the  vessel  with  an  air  of  command 
which  admitted  no  opposition.  The  Mare  Nostrum  must 
set  forth  at  once  for  Barcelona.  He  would  entrust  the 
command  to  his  mate.  He  would  join  it  just  as  soon  as 
he  could  finish  certain  affairs  that  were  detaining  him 
in  Naples. 

Toni  opened  his  eyes  with  a  gesture  of  surprise.  He 
wished  to  respond,  but  stood  with  his  mouth  open,  not 
venturing  to  speak  a  single  word.  .  .  .  This  was  his 
captain,  and  he  was  not  going  to  permit  any  objections 
to  his  orders. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  finally.  "I  only  ask  you  that  you 
return  as  soon  as  possible  to  take  up  your  command. 
.  .  .  Do  not  forget  what  we  are  losing  while  the  boat 
is  tied  up." 

A  few  days  after  the  departure  of  the  steamer  Ulysses 
radically  changed  his  method  of  living. 

Freya  no  longer  wished  to  continue  lodging  in  the  ho- 
tel. Attacked  by  a  sudden  modesty,  the  curiosity  and 
smiles  of  the  tourists  and  servants  were  annoying  her. 
Besides,  she  wished  to  enjoy  complete  liberty  in  her  love 
affairs.  Her  friend,  who  was  like  a  mother  to  her,  would 
facilitate  her  desire.  The  two  would  live  in  her  house. 

Ferragut  was  greatly  surprised  to  discover  the  ex- 
treme size  of  the  apartment  occupied  by  the  doctor.  Be- 
yond her  salon  there  was  an  endless  number  of  rooms, 


272  MARE  NOSTRUM 

somewhat  dismantled  and  without  furniture,  a  labyrinth 
of  partitioned  walls  and  passageways,  in  which  the  cap- 
tain was  always  getting  lost,  and  having  to  appeal  to 
Freya  for  aid ;  all  the  doors  of  the  stair-landings  that  ap- 
peared unrelated  to  the  green  screen  of  the  office  were  so 
many  other  exits  from  the  same  dwelling. 

The  lovers  were  lodged  in  the  extreme  end,  as  though 
living  in  a  separate  house.  One  of  the  doors  was  for 
them  only.  They  occupied  a  grand  salon,  rich  in  mold- 
ings and  gildings  and  poor  in  furniture.  Three  arm- 
chairs, an  old  divan,  a  table  littered  with  papers,  toilet 
articles  and  eatables,  and  a  rather  narrow  couch  in  one 
of  the  corners,  were  all  the  conveniences  of  this  new 
establishment. 

In  the  street  it  was  hot,  and  yet  they  were  shivering 
with  cold  in  this  magnificent  room  into  which  the  sun's 
rays  had  never  penetrated.  Ulysses  attempted  to  make 
a  fire  on  a  hearth  of  colored  marble,  big  as  a  monument, 
but  he  had  to  desist  half-suffocated  by  the  smoke.  In 
order  to  reach  the  doctor's  apartment  they  had  to  pass 
through  a  row  of  numberless  connecting  rooms,  long 
since  abandoned. 

They  lived  as  newly-wed  people,  in  an  amorous  soli- 
tude, commenting  with  childish  hilarity  on  the  defects 
of  their  quarters  and  the  thousand  little  inconveniences 
of  material  existence.  Freya  would  prepare  breakfast 
on  a  small  alcohol  stove,  defending  herself  from  her 
lover,  who  believed  himself  more  skilled  than  she  in  culi- 
nary affairs.  A  sailor  knows  something  of  everything. 

The  mere  suggestion  of  hunting  a  servant  for  their 
most  common  needs  irritated  the  German  maiden. 

"Never!  .  .  .  Perhaps  she  might  be  a  spy!" 

And  the  word  "spy"  on  her  lips  took  on  an  expression 
of  immense  scorn. 

The  doctor  was  absent  on  frequent  trips  and  Karl 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  273 

the  employee  in  the  study,  was  the  one  who  received 
visitors.  Sometimes  he  would  pass  through  the  row 
of  deserted  rooms  in  order  to  ask  some  information  of 
Freya,  and  she  would  follow  him  out,  deserting  her  lover 
for  a  few  moments. 

Left  to  himself,  Ulysses  would  suddenly  realize  the 
dual  nature  of  his  personality.  Then  the  man  he  was 
before  that  meeting  in  Pompeii  would  assert  himself,  and 
he  would  see  his  vessel  and  his  home  in  Barcelona. 

"What  have  you  got  yourself  into?"  he  would  ask 
himself  remorsefully.  "How  is  all  this  affair  ever  going 
to  turn  out?  .  .  ." 

But  at  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  in  the  next  room, 
on  perceiving  the  atmospheric  wave  produced  by  the 
displacement  of  her  adorable  body,  this  second  person 
would  fold  itself  back  and  a  dark  curtain  would  fall 
over  his  memory,  leaving  visible  only  the  actual  reality. 

With  the  beatific  smile  of  an  opium-smoker,  he  would 
accept  the  impetuous  caress  of  her  lips,  the  entwining 
of  her  arms,  strangling  him  like  marble  boas. 

"Ulysses,  my  master !  .  .  .  The  moments  that  separate 
me  from  you  weigh  upon  me  like  centuries!" 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  had  lost  all  notion  of  time. 
The  days  were  all  confused  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  to 
keep  asking  in  order  to  realize  their  passing.  After  a 
week  passed  in  the  doctor's  home,  he  would  sometimes 
suppose  that  the  sweet  sequestration  had  been  but  forty- 
eight  hours  long,  at  others  that  nearly  a  month  had  flitted 
by. 

They  went  out  very  little.  The  mornings  slipped  away 
insensibly  between  the  late  awakening  and  preparations 
for  a  breakfast  made  by  themselves.  If  it  was  necessary 
to  go  after  some  eatable  forgotten  the  day  before,  it 
was  she  who  took  charge  of  the  expedition,  wishing  to 
keep  him  from  all  contact  with  outside  life. 


274  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  afternoons  were  afternoons  of  the  harem,  passed 
upon  the  divan  or  stretched  on  the  floor.  In  a  low  voice 
she  would  croon  Oriental  songs,  incomprehensible  and 
mysterious.  Suddenly  she  would  spring  up  impetuously 
like  a  spring  that  is  unwound,  like  a  serpent  that  uncoils 
itself,  and  would  begin  to  dance,  almost  without  mov- 
ing her  feet,  waving  her  lithe  limbs.  .  .  .  And  he  would 
smile  with  stupefied  infatuation,  extending  a 'right  hand 
toward  an  Arabian  tabaret,  covered  with  bottles. 

Freya  took  even  greater  care  of  the  supply  of  liquor 
than  of  things  to  eat.  The  sailor  was  half-drunk,  but 
with  a  drunkenness  wisely  tempered  that  never 
went  beyond  the  rose-colored  period.  But  he  was  so 
happy!  .  .  . 

They  dined  outside  the  house.  Sometimes  their  ex- 
cursions were  at  midday  and  they  would  go  to  the  restau- 
rants of  Posilipo  or  Vomero,  the  very  places  that  he  had 
known  when  he  was  a  hopeless  suppliant,  and  which 
saw  him  now  with  her  hanging  on  his  arm,  with  a  proud 
air  of  possession.  If  nightfall  surprised  them,  they 
would  hastily  betake  themselves  to  a  cafe  in  the  interior 
of  the  city,  a  beer-garden  whose  proprietor  always  spoke 
to  Freya  in  German  in  a  low  voice. 

Whenever  the  doctor  was  in  Naples  she  would  seat 
herself  at  their  table,  with  the  air  of  a  good  mother  who 
is  receiving  her  daughter  and  son-in-law.  Her  scrutiniz- 
ing glasses  appeared  to  be  searching  Ferragut's  very  soul, 
as  though  doubtful  of  his  fidelity.  Then  she  would  be- 
come more  affectionate  in  the  course  of  these  banquets, 
composed  of  cold  meats  with  a  great  abundance  of 
drinks,  in  the  German  style.  For  her,  love  was  the  most 
beautiful  thing  in  existence,  and  she  could  not  look  upon 
these  two  enamored  ones  without  a  mist  of  emotion  blur- 
ring the  crystals  of  her  second  eyes. 

"Ah,  Captain!  .  .  .  How  much  she  loves  you!  .  .  . 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  275 

Do  not  disappoint  her;  obey  her  in  every  respect.  .  .  . 
She  adores  you." 

Frequently  she  returned  from  her  trips  in  evident  bad 
humor.  Ulysses  surmised  that  she  had  been  in  Rome. 
At  other  times  she  would  appear  very  gay,  with  an 
ironic  and  tedious  gayety.  "The  mandolin-strummers  ap- 
pear to  be  coming  to  their  senses.  Germany  is  constantly 
receiving  more  support  from  their  ranks.  In  Rome  the 
'German  propaganda'  is  distributed  among  millions." 

One  night  emotion  overcame  her  rugged  sensibilities. 
She  had  brought  back  from  her  trip  a  portrait  which 
she  pressed  lovingly  against  her  vast  bosom  before  show- 
ing it. 

"Look  at  it,"  she  said  to  the  two.  "It  is  the  hero 
whose  name  brings  tears  of  enthusiasm  to  all  Germans. 
.  .  .  What  an  honor  for  our  family !" 

Pride  made  her  hasty,  snatching  the  photograph  from 
Freya's  hand  in  order  to  pass  it  on  to  Ulysses.  He  saw 
a  naval  official  rather  mature,  surrounded  by  a  numerous 
family.  Two  children  with  long  blonde  hair  were  seated 
on  his  knees.  Five  youngsters,  chubby  and  tow-headed, 
appeared  at  his  feet  with  crossed  legs,  lined  up  in  the 
order  of  their  ages.  Near  his  shoulder  extended  a  double 
line  of  brawny  young  girls  with  coronal  braids  imitating 
the  coiffures  of  empresses  and  grand  duchesses.  .  .  .  Be- 
hind these,  proudly  erect,  was  his  virtuous  and  prolific 
companion,  aged  by  too  continuous  maternity. 

Ferragut  contemplated  this  patriotic  warrior  very  de- 
liberately. He  had  the  face  of  a  kindly  person  with 
clear  eyes  and  grayish,  pointed  beard.  He  almost  inspired 
a  tender  compassion  by  his  overwhelming  duties  as  a 
father. 

Meanwhile  the  doctor's  voice  was  chanting  the  glories 
of  her  relative. 

"A  hero !  .  .  .  Our  gracious  Kaiser  has  decorated  him 


276  MARE  NOSTRUM 

with  the  Iron  Cross.  They  have  given  him  honorary- 
citizenship  in  various  capitals.  .  .  .  May  God  punish 
England  1" 

And  she  extolled  this  patriarch's  unheard-of  exploit. 
He  was  the  commandant  of  the  submarine  that  had  tor- 
pedoed one  of  the  greatest  English  transatlantic  steamers. 
Out  of  the  twelve  hundred  passengers  from  New  York 
more  than  eight  hundred  were  drowned.  .  .  .  Women 
and  children  had  gone  down  in  the  general  destruc- 
tion. 

Freya,  more  quick-witted  than  the  doctor,  read  Ulys- 
ses* thoughts  in  his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  was  now  surveying 
with  astonishment  the  photograph  of  this  official  sur- 
rounded with  his  biblical  progeny,  like  a  good-natured 
burgher.  And  a  man  who  appeared  so  complacent  had 
committed  such  butchery  without  encountering  any  dan- 
ger whatever! — hidden  in  the  water  with  his  eye  glued 
to  the  periscope,  he  had  coldly  ordered  the  sending  of 
a  torpedo  against  this  floating  and  defenseless  city?  .  .  . 

"Such  is  war/'  said  Freya. 

"Of  course  it  is  war!"  retorted  the  doctor  as  if  of- 
fended at  the  propitiatory  tone  of  her  friend.  "And  it 
is  our  right  also.  They  blockade  us,  and  they  wish  our 
women  and  children  to  die  of  hunger,  and  so  we  kill 
theirs." 

The  captain  felt  obliged  to  protest,  in  spite  of  the 
hidden  nudges  and  gestures  of  his  mistress.  The  doctor 
had  many  times  told  him  that,  thanks  to  her  organiza- 
tion, Germany  could  never  know  hunger,  and  that  she 
could  exist  years  and  years  on  the  consumption  of  her 
own  product. 

"That  is  so/'  replied  the  dame,  "but  war  has  to  make 
itself  ferocious,  implacable,  in  order  that  it  may  not 
last  so  long.  It  is  our  human  duty  to  terrify  the 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  277 

enemy  with  a  cruelty  beyond  what  they  are  able  to 
imagine." 

The  sailor  slept  badly  that  night,  evidently  greatly 
troubled.  Freya  guessed  the  presence  of  something 
beyond  the  influence  of  her  caresses.  The  follow- 
ing day  his  pensive  reserve  continued  and  she,  well 
knowing  the  cause,  tried  to  dissipate  it  with  her 
words.  .  .  . 

The  torpedoing  of  defenseless  steamers  was  only  made 
on  the  coast  of  England.  They  had  to  cut  short,  cost 
what  it  might,  the  source  of  supplies  for  that  hated 
island. 

"In  the  Mediterranean  nothing  of  that  kind  will  ever 
occur.  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  .  .  .  The  submarines 
will  attack  battleships  only." 

And,  as  if  fearing  a  reappearance  of  Ulysses*  scru- 
ples, she  redoubled  her  seductions  on  their  afternoons 
of  voluptuous  imprisonment.  She  was  constantly  de- 
vising new  fascinations,  that  her  lover  might  never  be 
surfeited.  He,  on  his  part,  came  to  believe  that  he  was 
living  with  several  women  at  the  same  time,  like  an 
Oriental  personage.  Freya  upon  multiplying  her  charms, 
had  to  do  no  more  than  to  swing  around  on  herself, 
showing  a  new  facet  of  her  past  existence. 

The  sentiment  of  jealousy,  the  bitterness  of  not  hav- 
mg  been  the  first  and  only  one,  rejuvenated  the  sailor's 
passion,  alleviating  the  tedium  of  satiety,  yet  at  the  samb 
time  giving  to  her  caresses  an  acrid,  desperate  and  at- 
tractive relish  due  to  his  enforced  fraternity  with  un- 
known predecessors. 

Desisting  from  her  enchantments,  she  came  and  went 
through  the  salon,  sure  of  her  beauty,  proud  of  her  firm 
and  superb  physique,  which  had  not  yielded  in  the  slight- 
est degree  to  the  passing  of  the  years.  A  couple  of 
colored  shawls  served  as  her  transparent  clothing. 


278  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Waving  them  as  rainbow  shafts  around  her  marble-white 
body,  she  used  to  interpret  the  priestess  dances  to  the 
terrible  Siva  that  she  had  learned  in  Java. 

Suddenly  the  chill  of  the  room  would  begin  biting  in, 
awaking  her  from  her  tropical  dream.  With  a  final 
bound,  she  sought  refuge  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  my  beloved  Argonaut!  .  .  .  My  shark!" 

She  threw  herself  on  the  sailor's  breast,  stroking  his 
beard,  and  pushing  him  so  as  to  edge  in  on  the  divan 
which  was  too  narrow  for  the  two. 

She  guessed  at  once  the  cause  of  his  furrowed  brow, 
the  listlessness  with  which  he  responded  to  her  caresses, 
the  gloomy  fire  that  was  smouldering  in  his  eyes.  The 
exotic  dance  had  made  him  recall  her  past  and  in  order 
to  regain  her  sway  over  him,  subjecting  him  in  sweet 
passivity,  she  sprang  up  from  the  divan,  running  about 
the  room. 

"What  shall  I  give  to  my  bad  little  man,  in  order  to 
make  him  smile  a  bit?  ...  What  shall  I  do  in  order  to 
make  him  forget  his  wrong  ideas  ?  .  .  ." 

Perfumes  were  her  pet  fad.  As  she  herself  used  to 
say,  it  was  possible  for  her  to  do  without  eating  but 
never  without  the  richest  and  most  expensive  essences. 
In  that  scantily  furnished  room,  like  the  interior  of  an 
army  and  navy  supply  store,  the  cut  glass  flasks  with 
gold  and  nickel  stoppers,  protruded  among  the  clothing 
and  papers,  and  stood  up  in  the  corners  denouncing  the 
forgetfulness  of  their  enchanting  breath. 

"Take  it!    Take  it!" 

And  she  sprinkled  the  precious  perfumes  as  though 
they  were  water  on  Ferragut's  hair,  over  his  curled 
beard,  advising  the  sailor  to  close  his  eyes  in  order  not 
to  be  blinded  by  this  crazy  baptism. 

Anointed  and  fragrant  as  an  Asiatic  despot,  the  strong 
Ulysses  would  sometimes  revolt  against  this  effeminate- 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  279 

ness.  At  others,  he  would  accept  it  with  the  delight  of 
a  new  pleasure. 

Suddenly  a  window-shutter  would  seem  to  swing  open 
in  his  imagination,  and,  passing  by  this  luminous  square, 
he  would  see  the  melancholy  Cinta,  his  son  Esteban, 
the  bridge  of  his  vessel  and  Toni  at  the  helm. 

"Forget!"  cried  the  voice  of  his  evil  counselor,  blot- 
ting out  the  vision.  "Enjoy  the  present!  .  .  .  There  is 
plenty  of  time  to  go  in  search  of  them." 

And  again  he  would  sink  himself  in  his  refined  and 
artificial  luxurious  state  with  the  selfishness  of  the 
satrap  who,  after  ordering  various  cruelties,  locks  him- 
self in  his  harem. 

The  very  finest  linens,  scattered  by  chance,  enveloped 
his  body  or  served  as  cushions.  They  were  her  lin- 
gerie, stray  petals  of  her  beauty,  that  still  kept  the 
warmth  and  perfume  of  her  body.  If  Ferragut  needed 
any  object  belonging  to  him,  he  had  to  hunt  for  it 
through  sheaves  of  skirts,  silk  petticoats,  white  negligees, 
perfumes  and  portraits,  all  scattered  over  the  furniture 
or  tossed  in  the  corners.  When  Freya,  tired  of  dancing 
in  the  center  of  the  salon,  was  not  curling  herself  up 
in  his  arms  she  took  delight  in  opening  a  box  of  san- 
dalwood.  In  this  she  used  to  keep  all  her  jewels,  taking 
them  out  again  and  again  with  a  nervous  restless- 
ness, as  though  she  feared  they  might  have  evaporated 
in  their  enclosure.  Her  lover  had  to  listen  to  the  gravest 
explanations  accompanying  the  display  of  her  treasures. 

"Kiss  it,"  she  said,  offering  him  the  string  of  pearls 
almost  always  on  her  neck. 

These  grains  of  moonlight  splendor  were  to  her  little 
living  beings,  little  creatures  that  she  needed  in  contact 
with  her  skin.  She  was  impregnated  with  the  essence  of 
all  that  she  wore ;  she  drank  their  life: 

"They  have  slept  upon  me  so  many  nights,"  she  would 


28o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

murmur,  contemplating  them  amorously.  "This  light 
amber  tone  I  have  given  them  with  the  warmth  of  my 
body."  . 

They  were  no  longer  a  piece  of  jewelry,  they  formed 
a  part  of  her  organism.  They  might  grow  pale  and 
die  if  they  were  to  pass  many  days  forgotten  in  the  depths 
of  her  casket. 

After  that  she  kept  on  ransacking  the  perfumed  jewel- 
box  for  all  the  gems  that  were  her  great  pride, — ear- 
rings and  finger-rings  of  great  price,  mixed  with  other 
exotic  jewels  of  bizarre  form  and  slight  value,  picked 
up  on  her  voyages. 

"Look  carefully  at  this,"  she  said  gravely  to  Ferra- 
gut,  while  she  rubbed  against  her  bare  arm  an  enormous 
diamond  in  one  of  her  rings. 

Warmed  by  the  friction,  the  precious  stone  became 
converted  into  a  magnet.  A  bit  of  paper  placed  a  few 
inches  away  was  attracted  to  it  with  an  irresistible  flut- 
tering. 

She  then  rubbed  one  of  the  barbaric  imitation- jewels 
of  thick  cut  glass,  and  the  scrap  of  paper  remained  mo- 
tionless without  the  slightest  evidence  of  attraction. 

Satisfied  with  these  experiments,  she  replaced  her 
treasures  in  the  casket  and  set  herself  to  beguiling  the 
passing  monotony,  again  devoting  herself  to  Ulysses. 

These  long  imprisonments  in  an  atmosphere  charged 
with  perfumes,  Oriental  tobaccos,  and  feminine  seduc- 
tion were  gradually  disordering  Ferragut's  mind.  Be- 
sides this,  he  was  drinking  heavily  in  order  to  give  new 
vigor  to  his  organism  which  was  beginning  to  break 
down  under  the  excesses  of  his  voluptuous  seclusion.  At 
the  slightest  sign  of  weariness,  Freya  would  fall  upon 
him  with  her  dominating  lips.  If  she  freed  herself  from 
his  embraces,  it  was  to  offer  him  a  glass  full  of  the 
strongest  liquor. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  281 

When  the  spell  of  intoxication  overcame  him,  weigh- 
ing down  his  eyes,  he  always  recalled  the  same  dream. 
In  his  maudlin  siestas,  satiated  and  happy,  there  would 
always  reappear  another  Freya  who  was  not  Freya,  but 
Dona  Constanza,  the  Empress  of  Byzantium.  He  could 
see  her  dressed  as  a  peasant  girl,  just  as  she  was  por- 
trayed in  the  picture  in  the  church  of  Valencia,  and  at 
the  same  time  completely  undressed,  like  the  other  houri, 
who  was  dancing  in  the  salon. 

This  double  image,  which  disappeared  and  reappeared 
capriciously  with  the  arbitrariness  of  dreams,  was  al- 
ways telling  him  the  same  thing.  Freya  was  Dona  Con- 
stanza  perpetuated  across  the  centuries,  taking  on  a  new 
form.  She  was  born  of  the  union  of  a  German  and  an 
Italian,  just  like  this  other  one.  .  .  .  But  the  chaste 
empress  was  now  smiling  in  her  nudeness,  satisfied  with 
being  simply  Freya.  Marital  infidelity,  persecution  and 
poverty  had  been  the  result  of  her  first  existence  when 
she  was  tranquil  and  virtuous. 

"Now  I  know  the  truth,"  Dona  Constanza  would  say 
with  a  sweetly  immodest  smile.  "Only  love  exists ;  all 
the  rest  is  illusion.  Kiss  me,  Ferragut!  ...  I  have  re- 
turned to  life  in  order  to  recompense  you.  You  gave 
me  the  first  of  your  childish  affection;  you  longed  for 
me  before  you  became  a  man." 

And  her  kiss  was  like  that  of  the  spy — an  absorbing 
kiss  throughout  his  entire  person,  making  him  awake. 
.  .  .  Upon  opening  his  eyes  he  saw  Freya  with  her 
mouth  close  to  his. 

"Arise,  my  sea- wolf!  ...  It  is  already  night.  We 
are  going  to  dine." 

Outside  the  house,  Ulysses  would  breathe  in  the  twi- 
light breeze  and  look  at  the  first  stars,  that  were  begin- 
ning to  sparkle  above  the  roofs.  He  felt  the  fresh  de- 


282  MARE  NOSTRUM 

light  and  trembling  limbs  of  the  odalisque  coming  out  of 
retreat. 

The  dinner  finished,  they  would  stroll  through  the 
darkest  street  or  the  promenades  along  the  shore,  avoid- 
ing the  people.  One  night  they  stopped  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Villa  Nazionale,  near  the  bench  that  had  witnessed 
their  struggle  when  returning  from  Posilipo. 

"You  wished  to  kill  me,  you  little  rascal!  .  .  .  You 
threatened  me  with  your  revolver,  my  bandit!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  protested.  What  a  way  to  remember  things! 
But  she  refuted  his  correction  with  a  bold  and  lying  au- 
thority. 

"It  was  you!  ...  It  was  you!  I  say  so,  and  that  is 
enough.  You  must  become  accustomed  to  accepting 
whatever  I  may  affirm." 

In  the  beer  garden,  where  they  used  to  dine  almost 
every  night — an  imitation  medieval  saloon,  with  paneled 
beams  made  by  machinery,  plaster  walls  imitating  oak, 
and  neo-Gothic  crystals — the  proprietor  used  to  exhibit 
as  a  great  curiosity  a  jar  of  grotesque  little  figures  among 
the  porcelain  steins  that  adorned  the  brackets  of  the 
pedestals. 

Ferragut  recognized  it  immediately;  it  was  an  ancient 
Peruvian  jar. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  huaca"  she  said.  "I  have  been  in  that, 
too.  .  .  .  We  were  engaged  in  manufacturing  antiques." 

Freya  misunderstood  the  gesture  that  her  lover  made. 
She  thought  that  he  v/as  astonished  at  the  audacity  of 
this  manufacture  of  souvenirs.  "Germany  is  great; 
nothing  can  resist  the  adaptive  powers  of  her  indus- 
tries. .  .  ." 

And  her  eyes  burned  with  a  proud  light  as  she  enu- 
merated these  exploits  of  false  historical  resurrection. 
They  had  filled  museums  and  private  collections  with 
Egyptian  and  Phoenician  statuettes  recently  reproduced. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  283 

Then,  on  German  soil,  they  had  manufactured  Peruvian 
antiquities  in  order  to  sell  them  to  the  tourists  who  visit 
the  ancient  realm  of  the  Incas.  Some  of  the  inhabitants 
received  wages  for  disinterring  these  things  opportunely 
with  a  great  deal  of  publicity.  Now  the  fad  of  the 
moment  was  the  black  art,  and  collectors  were  hunting 
horrible  wooden  idols  carved  by  tribes  in  the  interior 
of  Africa. 

But  what  had  really  impressed  Ferragut  was  the  plural 
which  she  had  employed  in  speaking  of  such  industries. 
Who  had  fabricated  these  Peruvian  antiquities?  .  .  . 
Was  it  her  husband,  the  sage  ?  .  .  . 

"No,"  replied  Freya  tranquilly.  "It  was  another  one, 
— an  artist  from  Munich.  He  had  hardly  any  talent 
for  painting,  but  great  intelligence  in  business  matters. 
We  returned  from  Peru  with  the  mummy  of  an  Inca 
which  we  exhibited  in  almost  all  the  museums  of  Eu- 
rope without  finding  a  purchaser.  Bad  business !  We 
had  to  keep  the  Inca  in  our  room  in  the  hotel,  and  .  .  .'* 

Ferragut  was  not  interested  in  the  wanderings  of  the 
poor  Indian  monarch,  snatched  from  the  repose  of  his 
tomb.  .  .  .  One  more!  Each  of  Freya's  confidences 
evoked  a  new  predecessor  from  the  haze  of  her  past. 

Coming  out  of  the  beer-garden,  the  captain  stalked 
along  with  a  gloomy  aspect.  She,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  laughing  at  her  memories  surveying  across  the  years, 
with  a  flattering  optimism,  this  far-away  adventure  of  her 
Bohemian  days,  and  growing  very  merry  on  recalling  the 
remains  of  the  Inca  on  his  passage  from  hotel  to  hotel. 

Suddenly  Ulysses'  wrath  blazed  forth.  .  .  .  The  Dutch 
officer,  the  natural  history  sage,  the  singer  who  killed 
himself  in  one  shot  and  now  the  fabricator  of  antiqui- 
ties. .  .  .  How  many  more  men  had  there  been  in  her 
existence?  How  many  were  there  still  to  be  told  of? 
had  she  not  brought  them  all  out  at  once?  .  .  . 


284  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Freya  was  astounded  at  his  abrupt  violence.  The 
sailor's  wrath  was  terrifying.  Then  she  laughed,  lean- 
ing heavily  on  his  arm,  and  putting  her  face  clofee  to 
his. 

"You  are  jealous!  .  .  .  My  shark  is  jealous!  Go  on 
talking.  You  don't  know  how  much  I  like  to  hear  you. 
Complain  away!  .  .  .  Beat  me!  .  .  .  It's  the  first  time 
that  I've  seen  a  jealous  man.  Ah,  you  Southerners !  .  .  . 
Meridionals !  .  .  .  With  good  reason  the  women  adore 
you." 

And  she  was  telling  the  truth.  She  was  experiencing 
a  new  sensation  before  this  manly  wrath,  provoked  by 
amorous  indignation.  Ulysses  appeared  to  her  a  very 
different  man  from  all  the  others  she  had  known  in 
her  former  life, — cold,  compliant  and  selfish. 

"My  Ferragut!  .  .  .  My  Mediterranean  hero!  How 
I  love  you !  Come  .  .  .  come.  ...  I  must  reward  you !" 

They  were  in  a  central  street,  near  the  corner  of  a 
sloping  little  alley  with  stairs.  She  pushed  him  toward 
it,  and  at  the  first  step  in  the  narrow  and  dark  passage- 
way embraced  him,  turning  her  back  on  the  movement 
and  light  in  the  great  street,  in  order  to  kiss  him  with 
that  kiss  which  always  made  the  captain's  knees  trem- 
ble. 

Although  his  temper  was  soothed,  he  continued  com- 
plaining during  the  rest  of  the  stroll.  How  many  nad 
preceded  him?  .  .  .  He  must  know.  He  wished  to 
know,  no  matter  how  horrible  the  knowledge  might  be. 
It  was  the  delight  of  the  jealous  who  persist  in  scratching 
open  the  wound. 

"I  want  to  know  you,"  he  repeated.  "I  ought  to  know 
you,  since  you  belong  to  me.  I  have  the  right !  .  .  ." 

This  right  recalled  with  childish  obstinacy  made  Freya 
smile  dolorously.  Long  centuries  of  experience  appeared 
to  peep  out  from  the  melancholy  curl  of  her  lips.  In  her 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  285 

gleamed  the  wisdom  of  the  woman,  more  cautious  and 
foresighted  than  that  of  the  man,  since  love  was  her  only 
preoccupation. 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  know?"  she  asked  discourag- 
ingly.  "How  much  further  could  you  go  on  that?  .  .  . 
Would  you  perchance  be  any  happier  when  you  did 
know?  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent  for  some  steps  and  then  said  as  though 
disclosing  a  secret: 

"In  order  to  love,  it  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  know 
one  another.  Quite  the  contrary.  A  little  bit  of  mys- 
tery keeps  up  the  illusion  and  dispells  monotony.  .  .  . 
He  who  wishes  to  know  is  never  happy." 

She  continued  talking.  Truth  perhaps  was  a  good 
thing  in  other  phases  of  existence,  but  it  was  fatal  to 
love.  It  was  too  strong,  too  crude.  Love  was  like  cer- 
tain women,  beautiful  as  goddesses  under  a  discreet  and 
artificial  light,  but  horrible  as  monsters  under  the  burn- 
ing splendors  of  the  sun. 

"Believe  me;  put  away  these  bugbears  of  the  past.  Is 
not  the  present  enough  for  you?  .  .  .  Are  you  not 
happy  ?" 

And,  trying  to  convince  him  that  he  was,  she  re- 
doubled her  exertions,  chaining  Ulysses  in  bonds  which 
were  sweet  yet  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  Strongly 
convinced  of  his  vileness,  he  nevertheless  adored  and  de- 
tested this  woman,  with  her  tireless  sensuality.  .  .  .  And 
it  was  impossible  to  separate  himself  from  her!  .  .  . 

Anxious  to  find  some  excuse,  he  recalled  the  image  of 
his  cook  philosophizing  in  his  culinary  dominion.  When- 
ever he  had  wished  to  call  down  the  greatest  of  evils 
upon  an  enemy,  the  astute  fellow  had  always  uttered  this 
anathema : 

"May  God  send  you  a  female  to  your  taste !  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  had  found  the  "female  to  his  taste"  and  was 


2S6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

forever  slave  of  his  destiny.  It  would  follow  him 
through  every  form  of  debasement  which  she  might  de- 
sire, and  each  time  would  leave  him  with  less  energy  to 
protest,  accepting  the  most  disgraceful  situations  in  ex- 
change for  love.  .  .  .  And  it  would  always  be  so !  And 
he  who  but  a  few  months  before  used  to  consider  him- 
self a  hard  and  overbearing  man,  would  end  by  pleading 
and  weeping  if  she  should  go  away!  .  .  .  Ah,  mis- 
ery! .  .  . 

In  hours  of  tranquillity,  when  satiety  made  them  con- 
verse placidly  like  two  friends  of  the  same  sex,  Ulysses 
would  avoid  allusions  to  the  past,  questioning  her  only 
about  her  actual  life.  These  questions  were  chiefly  con- 
cerned with  the  doctor's  mysterious  work;  he  wished  to 
know  with  the  interest  that  the  slightest  actions  of  a 
beloved  person  always  inspire,  the  part  that  Freya  was 
playing  in  them.  Did  he  not  belong  now  to  the  same 
association  since  he  was  obeying  its  orders?  .  .  . 

The  responses  were  very  incomplete.  She  had  limited 
herself  to  obeying  the  doctor,  who  knew  everything.  .  .  . 
Then  she  hesitated  and  corrected  herself.  No,  her  friend 
could  not  know  everything,  because  above  her  were  the 
count  and  other  personages  who  used  to  come  from  time 
to  time  to  visit  her  like  passing  tourists.  And  the  chain 
of  agents,  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,  were  lost  in 
mysterious  heights  that  made  Freya  turn  pale,  imposing 
on  her  eyes  and  voice  an  expression  of  superstitious 
respect. 

She  was  free  to  speak  only  of  her  work,  and  she  did 
this  very  cautiously,  relating  the  measures  she  had  em- 
ployed, but  without  mentioning  her  co-workers  nor  stat- 
ing what  her  final  aim  was  to  be.  The  most  of  the  time 
she  had  been  moved  about  without  knowing  toward  what 
her  efforts  were  converging,  like  a  whirling  wheel  which 
knows  only  its  immediate  environments  and  is  ignorant 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  287 

of  the  machinery  as  a  whole  and  the  class  of  production 
to  which  it  contributes. 

Ulysses  marveled  at  the  grotesque  and  dubious  pro- 
ceedings employed  by  the  agents  of  the  spy  system. 

"But  that  is  like  the  paper  novels!  They  are  ridicu- 
lous and  worn-out  measures  that  any  one  can  learn  from 
books  and  melodramas." 

Freya  assented.  For  that  very  reason  they  were  em- 
ploying them.  The  surest  way  of  bewildering  the  enemy 
was  to  avail  themselves  of  obvious  methods;  thus  the 
modern  world,  so  intelligent  and  subtle,  would  refuse  to 
believe  in  them.  By  simply  telling  the  truth,  Bismarck 
had  deceived  all  European  diplomacy,  for  the  very  rea- 
son that  nobody  was  expecting  the  truth  from  his  lips. 

German  espionage  was  comporting  itself  like  the  per- 
sonages in  a  political  novel,  and  people  consequently 
could  not  seem  to  believe  in  it, — although  it  was  taking 
place  right  under  their  eyes, — just  because  its  methods 
appeared  too  exaggerated  and  antiquated. 

"Therefore,"  she  continued,  "every  time  that  France 
uncovers  a  part  of  our  maneuvers,  the  opinion  of  the 
world  which  believes  only  in  ingenious  and  difficult 
things  ridicules  it,  considering  it  attacked  with  a  de- 
lirium of  persecution." 

Women  for  some  time  past  had  been  deeply  involved 
in  the  service  of  espionage.  There  were  many  as  wise 
as  the  doctor,  as  elegant  as  Freya,  and  many  venerable 
ones  with  famous  names,  winning  the  confidence 
that  illustrious  dowagers  inspire.  They  were  very  nu- 
merous, but  they  did  not  know  each  other.  Sometimes 
they  met  out  in  the  world  and  were  suspicious  of 
each  other,  but  each  continued  on  her  special  mission, 
pushed  in  different  directions  by  an  omnipotent  and 
hidden  force. 

She  showed  him  some  portraits  that  were  taken  a  few 


288  MARE  NOSTRUM 

years  before.  Ulysses  was  slow  to  recognize  her  as  a 
slim  Japanese  young  girl,  clad  in  a  dark  kimono. 

"It  is  I  when  I  was  over  there.  It  was  to  our  interest 
to  know  the  real  force  of  that  nation  of  little  men  with 
rat-like  eyes." 

In  another  portrait  she  appeared  in  short  skirt,  riding 
boots,  a  man's  shirt,  and  a  felt  cowboy  hat. 

"That  was  from  the  Transvaal." 

She  had  gone  to  South  Africa  in  company  with  other 
German  women  of  the  "service"  in  order  to  sound  the 
state  of  mind  of  the  Boers  under  English  domination. 

"I've  been  everywhere,"  she  affirmed  proudly. 

"In  Paris,  too?"  questioned  the  sailor. 

She  hesitated  before  answering,  but  finally  nodded  her 
head.  .  .  .  She  had  been  in  Paris  many  times.  The  out- 
break of  the  war  had  found  her  living  in  the  Grand 
Hotel.  Fortunately,  two  days  before  the  rupture  of  hos- 
tilities, she  had  received  news  enabling  her  to  avoid 
being  made  prisoner  in  a  concentration  camp.  .  .  .  And 
she  did  not  wish  to  say  more.  She  was  verbose  and 
frank  in  the  relation  of  her  far-distant  experiences,  but 
the  memory  of  the  more  recent  ones  enshrouded  her  in  a 
restless  and  frightened  reserve. 

To  change  the  course  of  conversation,  she  spoke  of 
the  dangers  that  had  threatened  her  on  her  journeys. 

"We  have  to  be  very  courageous.  .  .  .  The  doctor,  just 
as  you  see  her,  is  a  heroine.  .  .  .  You  laugh,  but  if  you 
should  know  her  arsenal,  perhaps  it  might  strike  fear 
to  your  heart.  She  is  a  scientist." 

The  grave  lady  had  an  invincible  repugnance  for  vul- 
gar weapons,  and  Freya  referred  freely  to  a  portable 
medicine  case  full  of  anesthetics  and  poisons. 

"Besides  this  she  carries  on  her  person  a  little  bag 
full  of  certain  powders  of  her  own  invention, — tobacco, 
red  pepper.  .  .  .  Perfect  little  devils!  Whoever  gets 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  289 

them  in  the  eyes  is  blinded  for  life.  It  is  as  though  she 
were  throwing1  flames." 

She  herself  was  less  complicated  in  her  measures  of 
defense.  She  had  her  revolver,  a  species  of  firearms 
which  she  managed  to  keep  hidden  just  as  certain  in- 
sects hide  their  sting,  without  knowing  certainly  when 
it  might  be  necessary  to  draw  it  forth.  And  if  she 
could  not  avail  herself  of  that,  she  always  relied  on  her 
hatpin. 

"Just  look  at  it !  ...  With  what  gusto  I  could  pierce 
the  heart  of  many  a  person!  .  .  ." 

And  she  showed  him  a  kind  of  hidden  poniard,  a 
keen,  triangular  stiletto  of  genuine  steel,  capped  by  a 
large  glass  pearl  that  served  as  its  hilt. 

"Among  what  kind  of  people  are  you  living!"  mur- 
mured the  practical  voice  in  Ferragut's  interior.  "What 
have  you  mixed  yourself  up  with,  my  son!"  But  his 
tendency  to  discount  danger,  not  to  live  like  other  peo- 
ple, made  him  find  a  deep  enchantment  in  this  novel-like 
existence. 

The  doctor  no  longer  went  on  excursions,  but  her 
visitors  were  increasing  in  number.  Sometimes,  when 
Ulysses  was  starting  toward  her  room,  Freya  would  stop 
him. 

"Don't  go.  .  .  .  They're  having  a  consultation." 

Upon  opening  the  door  of  the  landing  that  corre- 
sponded to  his  quarters  he  saw,  on  various  occasions,  the 
green  screened  door  of  the  office  closing  behind  many 
men,  all  of  them  of  Teutonic  aspect,  travelers  who  had 
just  disembarked  in  Naples  with  a  certain  precipitation, 
neighbors  from  the  city  who  used  to  receive  orders  from 
the  doctor. 

She  appeared  much  more  preoccupied  than  usual.  Her 
eyes  would  pass  over  Freya  and  the  'sailor  as  though  she 
did  not  see  them. 


290  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Bad  news  from  Rome,"  Ferragut's  companion  told 
him.  "Those  accursed  mandolin-strummers  are  getting 
away  from  us." 

Ulysses  began  to  feel  a  certain  boredom  in  these  mo- 
notonously voluptuous  days.  His  senses  were  becoming 
blunted  with  so  many  indulgences  mechanically  repeated. 
Besides,  a  monstrous  debilitation  was  making  him  think 
in  self-defense  of  the  tranquil  life  of  the  hearth.  He 
timidly  began  calculating  the  time  of  his  seclusion.  How 
long  had  he  been  living  with  her?  .  .  .  His  confused 
and  crowded  memory  besought  her  aid. 

"Fifteen  days/'  replied  Freya. 

Again  he  persisted  in  his  calculations,  and  she  affirmed 
that  only  three  weeks  had  passed  by  since  his  steamer 
had  left  Naples. 

"I  shall  have  to  go/'  said  Ulysses  hesitatingly.  "They 
will  be  expecting  me  in  Barcelona ;  I  have  no  news.  .  .  . 
What  will  become  of  my  vessel?  .  .  ." 

She  who  generally  listened  to  these  inquiries  with  a 
distraught  air,  not  wishing  to  understand  his  timid  in- 
sinuations, responded  one  afternoon  unequivocally: 

"The  time  is  approaching  when  you  are  going  to  fulfill 
your  word  of  honor  in  regard  to  sacrificing  yourself 
for  me.  Soon  you  will  be  able  to  go  to  Barcelona,  and 
I — I  shall  join  you  there.  If  I  am  not  able  to  go,  we 
shall  meet  again.  .  .  .  The  world  is  very  small." 

Her  thought  did  not  go  beyond  this  sacrifice  exacted 
of  Ferragut.  After  that,  who  could  tell  where  she  would 
stop?  .  .  . 

Two  afternoons  later,  the  doctor  and  the  count  sum- 
moned the  sailor.  The  lady's  voice,  always  so  good- 
natured  and  protecting,  now  assumed  a  slight  accent  of 
command. 

"Everything  is  all  ready,  Captain."  As  she  had  not 
been  able  to  avail  herself  of  his  steamer,  she  had  pre- 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  291 

pared  another  boat  for  him.  He  was  merely  to  follow 
the  instructions  of  the  count  who  would  show  him  the 
bark  of  which  he  was  going  to  take  command. 

The  two  men  went  away  together.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  Ulysses  had  gone  out  in  the  street  without 
Freya,  and  in  spite  of  his  enamored  enthusiasm,  he  felt 
an  agreeable  sensation  of  freedom. 

They  went  down  to  the  shore  and  in  the  little  harbor 
of  the  Castello  dell'  Ovo  passed  over  the  plank  that 
served  as  a  bridge  between  the  dock  and  a  little  schooner 
with  a  greenish  hull.  Ferragut,  who  had  taken  in  its 
exterior  with  a  single  glance,  ran  his  eye  over  its  deck. 
.  .  .  "Eighty  tons."  Then  he  examined  the  apparatus 
and  the  auxiliary  machinery, — a  petroleum  motor  which 
permitted  it  to  make  seven  miles  an  hour  whenever  the 
sails  did  not  find  a  breeze. 

He  had  seen  on  the  poop  the  name  of  the  boat  and 
its  destination,  guessing  at  once  the  class  of  navigation 
to  which  it  was  dedicated.  It  was  a  Sicilian  schooner 
from  Trapani,  built  for  fishing.  An  artistic  calker  had 
sculptured  a  wooden  cray-fish  climbing  over  the  rudder. 
From  the  two  sides  of  the  prow  dangled  a  double  row 
of  cray-fish  carved  with  the  innocent  prolixity  of  medi- 
eval imagination. 

Coming  out  of  the  hatchway,  Ferragut  saw  half  of 
the  hold  full  of  boxes.  He  recognized  this  cargo;  each 
one  of  these  boxes  contained  two  cans  of  gasoline. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  to  the  count,  who  had  remained 
silent  behind  him,  following  him  in  all  his  evolutions. 
"Where  is  the  crew?  .  .  ." 

Kaledine  pointed  out  to  him  three  old  sailors  huddled 
on  the  prow  and  a  ragged  boy.  They  were  veterans 
of  the  Mediterranean,  silent  and  self -centered,  accus- 
tomed to  obey  orders  mechanically,  without  troubling 


292  MARE  NOSTRUM 

themselves  as  to  where  they  were  going,  nor  who  was 
commanding  them. 

"Are  there  no  more  ?"  Ferragut  asked. 

The  count  assured  him  that  other  men  would  come  to 
reenforce  the  crew  at  the  moment  of  its  departure. 
This  would  be  just  as  soon  as  the  loading  was  finished. 
They  had  to  take  certain  precautions  in  order  not  to 
attract  attention. 

"In  any  case,  you  will  be  ready  to  embark  quickly, 
Captain.  Perhaps  you  may  be  advised  with  only  a 
couple  of  hours'  notice/' 

Talking  it  over  with  Freya  at  night,  Ulysses  was  as- 
tonished at  the  promptness  with  which  the  doctor  had 
found  a  boat,  the  discretion  with  which  she  had  had  it 
loaded, — with  all  the  details  of  this  business  that  had  been 
developing  so  easily  and  mysteriously  right  in  the  very 
mouth  of  a  great  harbor  without  any  one's  taking  any 
notice  of  it. 

His  companion  affirmed  proudly  that  Germany  well 
understood  how  to  conduct  such  affairs.  It  was  not  the 
doctor  only  who  was  working  such  miracles.  All  the  Ger- 
man merchants  of  Naples  and  Sicily  had  been  giving 
aid.  .  .  .  And  convinced  that  the  captain  might  be  sent 
for  at  any  moment,  she  arranged  his  baggage,  packing 
the  little  suit-case  that  always  accompanied  him  on  short 
trips. 

The  next  day  at  twilight  the  count  came  in  search  of 
him.  All  was  ready;  the  boat  was  awaiting  its  captain. 

The  doctor  bade  Ulysses  farewell  with  a  certain  sol- 
emnity. They  were  in  the  salon,  and  in  a  low  voice 
she  gave  an  order  to  Freya,  who  went  out,  returning  im- 
mediately with  a  tall,  thin  bottle.  It  was  mellow  Rhine 
wine,  the  gift  of  a  merchant  of  Naples,  that  the  doctor 
was  saving  for  an  extraordinary  occasion.  She  filled  four 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  293 

glasses,   and,    raising   hers,    looked   around   her  uncer- 
tainly. 

"Where  is  the  North?  .  .  ." 

The  count  pointed  it  out  silently.  Then  the  lady  con- 
tinued raising  her  glass,  with  solemn  slowness,  as  though 
offering  a  religious  libation  to  the  mysterious  power  hid- 
den in  the  North,  far,  far  away.  Kaledine  imitated  her 
with  the  same  fervid  manner. 

Ulysses  was  going  to  raise  the  glass  to  his  lips,  wishing 
to  hide  a  ripple  of  laughter  provoked  by  the  imposing 
lady's  gravity. 

"Do  like  the  others,"  murmured  Freya  in  his  ear. 

And  the  two  quietly  drank  to  his  health  with  their 
eyes  turned  toward  the  North. 

"Good  luck  to  you,  Captain !"  said  the  doctor.  "You 
will  return  promptly  and  with  all  happiness,  since  you 
are  working  for  such  a  just  cause.  We  shall  never  for- 
get your  services." 

Freya  wished  to  accompany  him,  even  to  the  boat. 
The  count  began  a  protest,  but  stopped  on  seeing  the 
good-natured  gesture  of  the  sentimental  lady. 

"They  love  each  other  so  much !  .  .  .  Something  must 
be  conceded  to  love.  .  .  ." 

The  three  went  down  the  sloping  streets  of  Chiaja  to 
the  shore  of  S.  Lucia.  In  spite  of  his  preoccupation, 
Ferragut  could  not  but  look  attentively  at  the  count's 
appearance.  He  was  now  dressed  in  blue,  with  a  yachts- 
man's black  cap,  as  though  prepared  to  take  part  in  a 
regatta.  He  had  undoubtedly  adopted  this  attire  in  or- 
der to  make  the  farewell  more  solemn. 

In  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Nazionale  Kaledine 
stopped,  giving  an  order  to  Freya.  He  could  not  permit 
her  to  go  any  further.  She  would  attract  attention  in  the 
little  harbor  dell'  Ovo  frequented  only  by  fishermen. 
As  the  tone  of  his  order  was  sharp  and  imperious,  she 


294  MARE  NOSTRUM 

obeyed  without  protest,  as  though  accustomed  to  such 
superiority. 

"Good-bye!  .  .  .  Good-bye/' 

Forgetting  the  presence  of  the  haughty  witness,  she 
embraced  Ulysses  ardently;  then  she  burst  out  weeping 
with  a  nervous  sobbing.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  had 
never  been  so  sincere  as  in  that  moment.  And  he  had 
to  make  a  great  effort  to  disentangle  himself  from  her 
embrace.  , 

"Good-bye!  .  .  .    Good-bye!  ..." 

Then  he  followed  the  count  without  daring  to  turn 
his  head,  suspecting  that  her  eyes  were  still  upon  him. 

On  the  shores  of  S.  Lucia,  he  saw  in  the  distance  his 
old  hotel  with  its  illuminated  windows.  The  porter  was 
preceding  a  young  man  who  was  just  descending  from 
a  carnage,  carrying  a  suit-case.  Ferragut  was  instantly 
reminded  of  his  son  Esteban.  The  young  tourist  bore  a 
certain  resemblance  to  him.  .  .  .  And  Ferragut  con- 
tinued on,  smiling  rather  bitterly  at  this  inopportune 
recollection. 

On  entering  the  schooner  he  encountered  Karl,  the 
doctor's  factotum,  who  had  brought  his  little  baggage 
and  had  just  installed  it  in  his  cabin.  "He  could  retire." 
.  .  .  Then  he  looked  over  the  crew.  In  addition  to  the 
three  old  Sicilians  he  now  saw  seven  husky  young  fel- 
lows, blonde  and  stout,  with  rolled-up  sleeves.  They 
were  talking  Italian,  but  the  captain  had  no  doubt  as, 
to  their  real  nationality. 

As  some  of  them  were  already  beginning  to  weigh 
anchor,  Ferragut  looked  at  the  count  as  though  inviting 
him  to  depart.  The  boat  was  gradually  detaching  itself 
from  the  dock.  They  were  going  to  draw  in  the  gang- 
plank which  had  served  as  a  bridge. 

"I'm  going,  too,"  said  Kaledine.    "This  trip  interests 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  295 

Ulysses,  who  was  disposed  not  to  be  surprised  at 
anything  in  this  extraordinary  voyage,  merely  exclaimed 
courteously,  "So  much  the  better!"  He  was  no  longer 
concerned  with  him,  and  devoted  all  his  efforts  to  con- 
ducting the  boat  out  of  the  little  harbor,  directing  its 
course  through  the  gulf.  The  glass  windows  on  the 
shore  of  S.  Lucia  trembled  with  the  vibration  of  the 
motor  of  the  decrepit  steamer — an  old  and  scandalous 
piece  of  machinery  imitating  the  paddling  of  a  tired 
dog.  Meanwhile  the  sails  were  unfurled  and  swelling 
under  the  first  gusts  of  the  wind. 

The  trip  lasted  three  days.  The  first  night,  the  cap- 
tain enjoyed  the  selfish  delights  of  resting  alone.  He 
was  living  among  men.  .  .  .  And  he  appreciated  the 
satisfaction  chastity  offered  with  all  the  enchantments 
of  novelty. 

The  second  night,  in  the  narrow  and  noisome  cabin 
of  the  skipper,  he  felt  wakeful  because  of  the  memories 
that  were  again  springing  up.  Oh,  Freya!  .  .  .  When 
would  he  ever  see  her  again? 

The  count  and  he  conversed  little,  but  passed  long 
hours  together,  seated  at  the  side  of  the  wheel  looking 
out  on  the  sea.  They  were  more  friendly  than  on  land, 
although  they  exchanged  very  few  words.  The  com- 
mon life  lessened  the  haughtiness  of  the  pretended  diplo- 
mat and  enabled  the  captain  to  discover  new  merits  in 
his  personality.  The  freedom  with  which  he  was  going 
through  the  boat,  and  certain  technical  words  employed 
against  his  will,  left  no  doubt  in  Ferragut's  mind  regard- 
ing his  true  profession. 

"You  are  in  the  navy/'  he  said  suddenly. 

And  the  count  assented,  judging  dissimulation  useless. 

Yes,  he  was  a  naval  officer. 

"Then  what  am  I  doing  here?  Why  have  you  given 
the  command  to  me?  .  .  ."  So  Ferragut  was  thinking, 


296  MARE  NOSTRUM 

without  discovering  why  this  man  should  seek  his  assist- 
ance when  he  could  direct  a  boat  himself,  without  any 
outside  aid. 

Undoubtedly  he  was  a  naval  officer,  and  all  the 
blonde  sailors  that  were  working  like  automatons  must 
also  have  come  from  some  fleet.  Discipline  was  mak- 
ing them  respect  Ferragut's  orders,  but  the  captain  sus- 
pected that  for  them  he  was  merely  a  proxy,  the  true 
chief  on  board  being  the  count. 

The  schooner  passed  within  sight  of  the  Liparian  archi- 
pelago; then,  twisting  its  course  toward  the  west,  fol- 
lowed the  coast  of  Sicily,  from  Cape  Gallo  to  the  Cape 
of  Vito.  From  there  it  turned  its  prow  to  the  southeast, 
heading  toward  the  ^Egadian  Islands. 

It  had  to  wait  in  the  waters  where  the  Mediterranean 
was  beginning  to  narrow  between  Tunis  and  Sicily, 
where  the  volcanic  peak  of  the  Pantellarian  Island  rises 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  immense  strait. 

Brief  indications  from  the  count  were  sufficient  to 
make  the  course  followed  by  Ferragut  in  accordance  with 
his  desire.  He  finally  could  not  hide  his  admiration  for 
the  Spaniard's  mastery  of  navigation. 

"You  know  your  sea  well,"  said  the  count. 

The  captain  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiling.  It  truly 
was  his.  He  could  call  it  "mare  nostrum'  just  as  the 
Romans  and  their  former  rulers  had  done. 

As  though  divining  the  subsea  depths  by  a  simple 
glance,  he  kept  his  boat  within  the  limits  of  the  extensive 
ledge  of  the  Aventura.  He  was  navigating  slowly  with 
only  a  few  sails,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  same  water. 

Kaledine,  after  two  days  had  passed  by,  began  to  grow 
uneasy.  Several  times  it  sounded  to  Ferragut  as  though 
he  were  muttering  the  name  of  Gibraltar.  The  passage 
from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Mediterranean  was  the  greatest 
danger  for  those  that  he  was  expecting. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  29; 

From  the  deck  of  the  schooner  he  was  able  to  see. 
only  a  short  distance,  and  the  count  clambered  up  the 
rigging  in  order  that  his  eyes  might  take  in  a  more  ex^ 
tensive  sweep. 

One  morning  up  aloft  he  called  something  to  the  cap^ 
tain,  pointing  out  a  speck  on  the  horizon.  He  must 
steer  in  that  very  direction.  What  he  was  seeking  was 
over  there. 

Ferragut  obeyed  him,  and  half  an  hour  later  thers 
appeared,  one  after  the  other,  two  long,  low  boats,  mov- 
ing with  great  velocity.  They  were  like  destroyers,  but 
without  mastheads,  without  smokestacks,  skimming  along 
almost  on  a  level  with  the  water,  painted  in  a  gray  that 
made  them  seem  a  short  distance  away  of  the  same  color 
as  the  sea.  They  came  around  on  both  sides  of  the 
sailboat  as  though  they  were  going  to  crush  it  with  the 
meeting  of  their  hulls.  Various  metallic  cables  came 
up  from  their  decks  and  were  thrown  over  the  bitts  of 
the  schooner,  fastening  it  to  them,  and  forming  the  three 
vessels  into  a  solid  mass  that,  united,  followed  the  slow 
undulation  of  the  sea. 

Ulysses  examined  curiously  his  two  companions  in  this 
improvised  float.  Were  these  the  famous  submarines? 
.  .  .  He  saw  on  their  steel  decks  round  and  protruding 
hatchways  like  chimneys  through  which  groups  of 
heads  were  sticking  out.  The  officers  and  crews  were 
dressed  like  fishermen  from  the  northern  coast  with 
waterproof  suits  of  one  piece  and  oilskin  hats.  Many  of 
them  were  swinging  their  tarpaulins  over  their  heads,  and 
the  count  replied  to  them  by  waving  his  cap.  The 
blonde  sailors  of  the  schooner  shouted  in  reply  to  the 
acclamations  of  their  comrades  on  the  submersibles, 
"Deutchsland  uber  alles!  .  .  ." 

But  this  enthusiasm,  equivalent  to  a  song  of  triumph 
in  ttye  midst  of  the  solitude  of  the  sea,  lasted  but  a  very 


298  MARE  NOSTRUM 

short  time.  Whistles  sounded,  men  ran  over  the  steel 
decks  and  Ferragut  saw  his  vessel  invaded  by  two  files 
of  seamen.  In  a  moment  the  hatchways  were  opened; 
there  sounded  the  crash  of  breaking  pieces  of  wood,  and 
the  cases  of  petrol  began  to  be  carried  off  on  both 
sides.  The  water  all  around  the  sailboat  was  filled  with 
broken  cases  that  were  gently  floating  away. 

The  count  on  the  poop  deck  was  listening  to  an  officer 
dressed  in  waterproof  garments. 

He  was  recounting  their  passage  through  the  Strait  of 
Gibraltar,  completely  submerged,  seeing  through  the 
periscope  the  English  torpedo-chasers  on  patrol. 

"Nothing,  Commandant,"  continued  the  officer.  "Not 
even  the  slightest  incident.  ...  A  magnificent  voyage !" 

"May  God  punish  England!"  said  the  count  now 
called  Commandant. 

"May  God  punish  her!"  replied  the  official  as  though 
he  were  saying  "Amen." 

Ferragut  saw  himself  forgotten,  ignored,  by  all  the 
men  aboard  the  schooner.  Some  of  the  sailors  even 
pushed  him  to  one  side  in  the  haste  of  their  work.  He 
was  the  mere  master  of  a  sailing  vessel  who  counted 
for  nothing  in  this  hierarchy  of  warlike  men. 

He  now  began  to  understand  why  they  had  given 
him  the  command  of  the  little  vessel.  The  count  was 
in  possession  of  the  situation.  Ferragut  saw  him 
approaching  as  though  he  had  suddenly  recollected  him, 
stretching  out  his  right  hand  with  the  affability  of  a 
comrade. 

"Many  thanks,  Captain.  This  service  is  of  the  kind 
that  is  not  easily  forgotten.  Perhaps  we  shall  never  see 
each  other  again.  .  .  .  But  if  at  any  time  you  need 
me,  you  may  know  who  I  am." 

And,  as  though  presenting  him  to  another  person,  he 
gave  his  name  and  titles  ceremoniously : — Archibald  von 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  299 

Kramer,  Naval  Lieutenant  of  the  Imperial  Navy.  .  .  . 
His  diplomatic  role  had  not  been  entirely  false.  .  .  .  He 
had  served  as  Naval  Attache  in  various  embassies. 

He  then  gave  instructions  for  the  return  trip.  Ferra- 
gut  was  to  wait  opposite  Palermo  where  a  boat  would 
come  out  after  him  and  take  him  ashore.  Everything 
had  been  foreseen.  .  .  .  He  must  deliver  the  command  to 
the  true  owner  of  the  schooner,  a  timorous  man  who  had 
made  them  pay  very  high  for  the  hire  of  the  boat  without 
venturing  to  jeopardize  his  own  person.  In  the  cabin 
were  the  customary  papers  for  clearing  the  vessel. 

"Salute  the  ladies  in  my  name.  Tell  them  that  they 
will  soon  have  news  of  us.  We  are  going  to  make  our- 
selves lords  of  the  Mediterranean." 

The  unloading  of  combustibles  still  continued.  Fer- 
ragut  saw  von  Kramer  slipping  through  the  openings 
of  one  of  the  submarines.  Then  he  thought  he  recognized 
on  the  submersible  two  of  the  sailors  of  the  crew  of 
the  schooner  who,  after  being  received  with  shouts  and 
embraces  by  their  comrades,  disappeared  through  a  tubu- 
lar hatchway. 

The  unloading  lasted  until  mid-afternoon.  Ulysses 
had  not  imagined  that  the  little  boat  could  carry  so  many 
cases.  When  the  hold  was  empty,  the  last  German 
sailors  disappeared  and  with  them  the  cables  that  had 
lashed  them  to  the  sailboat.  An  officer  shouted  to  him 
that  he  could  get  under  way. 

The  two  submersibles  with  their  cargo  of  oil  and  gaso- 
line were  nearer  the  level  of  the  sea  than  on  their  arrival 
and  now  began  to  disappear  in  the  distance. 

Finding  himself  alone  in  the  stern  of  the  schooner, 
the  Spaniard  felt  a  sudden  disquietude. 

"What  have  you  done!  .  .  .  What^have  you  done!" 
clamored  a  voice  in  his  brain. 

But  contemplating  the  three  old  men  and  the  boy 


300 


MARE  NOSTRUM 


who  had  remained  as  the  only  crew,  he  forgot  his  re- 
morse. He  would  have  to  bestir  himself  greatly  in 
order  to  supply  the  lack  of  men.  For  two  nights  and  a 
day  he  scarcely  rested,  managing  almost  at  the  same 
time  both  helm  and  motor,  since  he  did  not  dare  to 
let  out  all  his  sails  with  this  scarcity  of  sailors. 

When  he  found  himself  opposite  the  port  of  Palermo, 
just  as  it  was  beginning  to  extinguish  its  night  lights, 
Ferragut  was  able  to  sleep  for  the  first  time,  leaving  the 
watch  of  the  boat  in  charge  of  one  of  the  seamen, 
who  maintained  it  with  sails  furled.  In  the  middle  of  the 
morning  he  was  awakened  by  some  voices  shouting 
from  the  sea: 

"Where  is  the  captain?" 

He  saw  a  skiff  and  various  men  leaping  aboard  the 
schooner.  It  was  the  owner  who  had  come  to  claim 
his  boat  in  order  to  bring  it  into  port  in  the  customary 
legal  form.  The  skiff  was  commissioned  to  take  Ulysses 
ashore  with  his  little  suitcase.  He  was  accompanied 
by  a  red- faced,  fat  gentleman  who  appeared  to  have 
great  authority  over  the  skipper. 

"I  suppose  you  are  already  informed  of  what  is 
happening,"  he  said  to  Ferragut  while  the  two  oarsmen 
made  the  skiff  glide  over  the  waves.  "Those  bandits! 
.  .  .  Those  mandolin-players!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses,  without  knowing  why,  made  an  affirmative 
gesture.  This  indignant  burgher  was  a  German,  one  of 
those  that  were  useful  to  the  doctor.  ...  It  was  enough 
just  to  listen  to  him. 

A  half  hour  later  Ferragut  leaped  on  the  dock  with- 
out any  one's  opposing  his  disembarking,  as  though  the 
protection  of  his  obese  companion  had  made  all  the 
guards  drowsy.  The  good  gentleman  showed,  notwith- 
standing, a  fervent  desire  to  separate  himself  from  his 
charge — to  hurry  away,  attending  to  his  own  affairs. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  301 

He  smiled  upon  learning  that  Ulysses  wished  to  go 
immediately  to  Naples.  "You  do  well.  .  .  .  The  train 
leaves  in  two  hours."  And  putting  him  in  a  vacant  hack, 
he  disappeared  with  precipitation. 

Finding  himself  alone,  the  captain  almost  believed  that 
he  had  dreamed  of  those  two  preceding  days. 

He  was  again  seeing  Palermo  after  an  absence  of  long 
years :  and  he  experienced  the  joy  of  an  exiled  Sicilian 
on  meeting  the  various  carts  of  the  countryside,  drawn 
by  broken-down  horses  with  plumes,  whose  badly-painted 
wagon  bodies  represented  scenes  from  "Jerusalem  De- 
livered." He  recalled  the  names  of  the  principal  roads, — 
the  roads  of  the  old  Spanish  viceroys.  In  one  square  he 
saw  the  statue  of  four  kings  of  Spain.  .  .  .  But  all  these 
souvenirs  only  inspired  in  him  a  fleeting  interest.  What 
he  particularly  noticed  was  the  extraordinary  movement 
in  the  streets,  the  people  grouping  themselves  together 
in  order  to  listen  to  the  reading  of  the  daily  papers. 
Many  windows  displayed  the  national  flag,  interlaced 
with  those  of  France,  England,  and  Belgium. 

Upon  arriving  at  the  station  he  learned  the  truth, — was 
informed  of  the  event  to  which  the  merchant  had  alluded 
while  they  were  in  the  skiff.  It  was  war!  .  .  .  Italy 
had  broken  her  relations  the  day  before  with  the  Central 
Powers. 

Ulysses  felt  very  uneasy  on  remembering  what  he  had 
done  out  on  the  Mediterranean.  He  feared  that  the  popu- 
lar groups,  thronging  past  him  and  giving  cheers  behind 
their  flags,  were  going  to  guess  his  exploit  and  fall  upon 
him.  It  was  necessary  to  get  away  from  this  patriotic 
enthusiasm,  and  he  breathed  more  freely  when  he  found 
himself  in  one  of  the  coaches  of  a  train.  .  .  .  Besides, 
he  was  going  to  see  Freya.  And  it  was  enough  for  him 
merely  to  evoke  her  image  to  make  all  his  remorse  van- 
ish. 


3o2  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  short  journey  proved  long  and  difficult.  The  ne- 
cessities of  war  had  made  themselves  felt  from  the  very 
first  moment,  absorbing  all  means  of  communication. 
The  train  would  remain  immovable  for  hours  together 
in  order  to  give  the  right  of  way  to  other  trains  loaded 
with  men  and  military  materials.  ...  In  all  the  stations 
were  soldiers  in  campaign  uniform,  banners  and  cheer- 
ing crowds. 

When  Ferragut  arrived  at  Naples,  fatigued  by  a  jour- 
ney of  forty-eight  hours,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
coachman  was  going  too  slowly  toward  the  old  palace  of 
Chiaja. 

Upon  crossing  the  vestibule  with  his  little  suit-case,  the 
portress, — a  fat  old  crone  with  dusty,  frizzled  hair  whom 
he  had  sometimes  caught  a  glimpse  of  in  the  depths  of 
her  hall  cavern, — stopped  his  passage. 

"The  ladies  are  no  longer  living  in  the  house.  .  .  .  The 
ladies  have  suddenly  left  with  Karl,  their  employee." 
And  she  explained  the  rest  of  their  flight  with  a  hostile 
and  malignant  smile. 

Ferragut  saw  that  he  must  not  insist.  The  slovenly 
old  wife  was  furious  over  the  flight  of  the  German 
ladies,  and  was  examining  the  sailor  as  a  probable  spy 
fit  for  patriotic  denunciation.  Nevertheless,  through 
professional  honor,  she  told  him  that  the  blonde  signora, 
the  younger  and  more  attractive  one,  had  thought  of  him 
on  going  away,  leaving  his  baggage  in  the  porter's  room. 

Ulysses  hastened  to  disappear.  He  would  soon  send 
some  one  to  collect  those  valises.  And  taking  another 
carriage,  he  betook  himself  to  the  albergo  of  S.  Lucia. 
.  .  .  What  an  unexpected  blow! 

The  porter  made  a  gesture  of  surprise  and  astonish- 
ment upon  seeing  him  enter.  Before  Ferragut  could  in- 
quire for  Freya,  with  the  vague  hope  that  she  might  have 
taken  refuge  in  the  hotel,  this  man  gave  him  some  news. 


THE  SIN  OF  ULYSSES  303 

"Captain,  your  son  has  been  here  waiting  for  you." 

The  captain  stuttered  in  dismay,  ''What  son?  .  .  ." 

The  man  with  the  embroidered  keys  brought  the  regis- 
ter, showing  him  one  line,  "Esteban  Ferragut,  Barce- 
lona." Ulysses  recognized  his  son's  handwriting,  and 
at  the  same  time  his  heart  was  oppressed  with  indefinable 
anguish. 

Surprise  made  him  speechless,  and  the  porter  took  ad- 
vantage of  his  silence  to  continue  speaking.  He  was 
such  a  charming  and  intelligent  lad!  .  .  .  Some  morn- 
ings he  had  accompanied  him  in  order  to  point  out  to 
him  the  best  things  in  the  city.  He  had  inquired  among 
the  consignees  of  the  Mare  Nostrum,  hunting  everywhere 
for  news  of  his  father.  Finally  convinced  that  the  cap- 
tain must  already  be  returning  to  Barcelona,  he  also  had 
gone  the  day  before. 

"If  you  had  only  come  twelve  hours  sooner,  you  would 
have  found  him  still  here." 

The  porter  knew  nothing  more.  Occupied  in  doing  er- 
rands for  some  South  American  ladies,  he  had  been  un- 
able to  say  good-bye  to  the  young  man  when  he  left  the 
hotel,  undecided  whether  to  make  the  trip  in  an  English 
steamer  to  Marseilles  or  to  go  by  railroad  to  Genoa, 
where  he  would  find  boats  direct  to  Barcelona. 

Ferragut  wished  to  know  when  he  had  arrived.  And 
the  porter,  rolling  his  eyes,  gave  himself  up  to  long 
mental  calculation.  .  .  .  Finally  he  reached  a  date  and 
the  sailor,  in  his  turn,  concentrated  his  powers  of  recol- 
lection. 

He  struck  himself  on  the  forehead  with  his  clenched 
hand.  It  must  have  been  his  son  then,  that  youth  whom 
he  had  seen  entering  the  albergo  the  very  day  that  he  was 
going  to  take  charge  of  the  schooner,  jto  carry  combusti- 
bles to  the  German  submarines! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS 

WHENEVER  the  Mare  Nostrum  returned  to  Bar- 
celona, Esteban  Ferragut  had  always  felt  as  dazzled  as 
though  a  gorgeous  stained  glass  window  had  opened  upon 
his  obscure  and  monotonous  life  as  the  son  of  the  fam- 
ily. 

He  now  no  longer  wandered  along  the  harbor  admiring 
from  afar  the  great  transatlantic  liners  in  front  of  the 
monument  of  Christopher  Columbus,  nor  the  cargo  steam- 
ers that  were  lined  up  along  the  commercial  docks.  An 
important  boat  was  going  to  be  his  absolute  property 
for  some  weeks,  while  its  captain  and  officers  were  pass- 
ing the  time  on  land  with  their  families.  Toni,  the  mate, 
was  the  only  one  who  slept  aboard.  Many  of  the  sea- 
men had  begged  permission  to  live  in  the  city,  and  so 
the  steamer  had  been  entrusted  to  the  guardianship  of 
Uncle  Caragol  with  half  a  dozen  men  for  the  daily  clean- 
ing. The  little  Ferragut  used  to  play  that  he  was  the 
captain  of  the  Mare  Nostrum  and  would  pace  the 
bridge,  pretending  that  a  great  tempest  was  coming  up, 
and  examine  the  nautical  instrument  with  the  gravity 
of  an  expert.  Sometimes  he  used  to  race  through  all 
the  habitable  parts  of  the  boat,  climbing  down  to  the 
holds  that,  wide  open,  were  being  ventilated,  waiting 
for  their  cargo;  and  finally  he  would  clamber  into  the 
ship's  gig,  untying  it  from  the  landing  in  order  to  row 
in  it  for  a  few  hours,  with  even  more  satisfaction  than 
in  the  light  skiffs  of  the  Regatta  Club. 

304 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  305 

His  visits  always  ended  in  the  kitchen,  invited  there 
by  Uncle  Caragol,  who  was  accustomed  to  treat  him 
with  fraternal  familiarity.  If  the  youthful  oarsman  was 
perspiring  greatly.  .  .  .  "A  refresquet?"  And  the  chef 
would  prepare  his  sweet  mixture  that  made  men,  after 
one  gulp,  fall  into  the  haziness  of  intoxication. 

Esteban  esteemed  highly  the  "refrescos"  of  the  cook. 
His  imagination,  excited  by  the  frequent  reading  of 
novels  of  travel,  had  made  him  conceive  a  type  of  heroic, 
gallant,  dashing  sailor — a  regular  swash-buckler  capable 
of  swallowing  by  the  pitcherful  the  most  rousing  drinks 
without  moving  an  eyelid.  He  wanted  to  be  that  kind; 
every  good  sailor  ought  to  drink. 

Although  on  land  he  was  not  acquainted  with  other 
liquors  than  those  innocent  and  over-sweet  ones  kept 
by  his  mother  for  family  fiestas,  once  he  trod  the  deck 
of  a  vessel  he  felt  the  necessity  for  alcoholic  liquids  so 
as  to  make  it  evident  that  he  was  entirely  a  man.  "There 
wasn't  in  the  whole  world  a  drink  that  could  do  him 
any  harm.  .  .  ."  And  after  a  second  "refresco"  from 
Uncle  Caragol,  he  became  submersed  in  a  placid  nirvana, 
seeing  everything  rose-colored  and  considerably  en- 
larged,— the  sea,  the  nearby  boats,  the  docks,  and  Mont- 
juich  in  the  background. 

The  cook,  looking  at  him  affectionately  with  his  bleared 
eyes,  believed  that  he  must  have  bounded  back  a  dozen 
years  and  be  still  in  Valencia,  talking  with  that  other 
Ferragut  boy  who  was  running  away  from  the  university 
in  order  to  row  in  the  harbor.  He  almost  came  to  be- 
lieve that  he  had  lived  twice. 

He  always  listened  patiently  to  the  lad's  complaints, 
interrupting  him  with  solemn  counsels.  This  fifteen- 
year-old  Ferragut  appeared  discontented  with  life.  He 
was  a  man  and  he  had  to  live  with  women — his  mother 
and  two  nieces,  who  were  always  making  laces, — just  as 


306  MARE  NOSTRUM 

in  other  times  his  mother  had  been  the  lace-making  com- 
panion of  her  mother-in-law,  Dona  Cristina.  He  wanted 
to  be  a  seaman  and  they  were  obliging  him  to  study  the 
uninteresting  courses  leading  to  a  bachelor's  degree.  It 
was  scarcely  likely,  was  it,  that  a  captain  would  have  to 
know  Latin  ?  ...  He  wanted  to  bring  his  student  life  to 
an  end  so  as  to  become  a  pilot  and  continue  practicing  on 
the  bridge,  beside  his  father.  Perhaps  at  thirty  years 
of  age,  he  might  achieve  the  command  of  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum or  some  similar  boat. 

Meanwhile  the  lure  of  the  sea  dragged  him  far  from 
the  classroom,  prompting  him  to  visit  Uncle  Caragol  at 
the  very  hour  that  his  professors  were  calling  the  roll 
and  noting  the  students'  absence. 

The  old  man  and  his  protege  used  to  betake  themselves 
in  the  galley  with  the  uneasy  conscience  of  the  guilty. 
Steps  and  voices  on  deck  always  changed  their  topic 
of  conversation.  "Hide  yourself!"  and  Esteban  would 
dodge  under  the  table  or  hide  in  the  provision-closet 
while  the  cook  sallied  forth  with  a  seraphic  countenance 
to  meet  the  recent  arrival. 

Sometimes  it  was  Toni,  and  the  boy  would  then  dare 
to  come  out,  relying  on  his  silence;  for  Toni  liked  him, 
too,  and  approved  of  his  aversion  to  books. 

If  it  was  the  captain  who  was  coming  to  the  boat  for 
a  few  moments,  Caragol  would  talk  with  him,  obstructing 
the  door  with  his  bulk  at  the  same  time  that  he  was 
smiling  maliciously. 

For  Esteban  the  two  most  wonderful  things  in  all  the 
world  were  the  sea  and  his  father.  All  those  romantic 
heroes  that  had  come  from  the  pages  of  novels  to  take 
their  place  in  his  imagination  had  the  face  and  ways  of 
Captain  Ferragut. 

From  babyhood  he  had  seen  his  mother  weeping  oc- 
,  casionally  in  resigned  sadness.  Years  later,  recognizing 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  307 

with  the  precocity  of  a  little-watched  boy  the  relations 
that  exist  between  men  and  women,  he  suspected  that  all 
these  tears  must  be  caused  by  the  flirtations  and  infideli- 
ties of  the  distant  sailor. 

He  adored  his  mother  with  the  passion  of  an  only  and 
spoiled  child,  but  he  admired  the  captain  no  less,  excus- 
ing every  fault  that  he  might  commit.  His  father  was 
the  bravest  and  handsomest  man  in  all  the  world. 

And  when  rummaging  one  day  through  the  drawers 
in  his  father's  stateroom,  he  chanced  upon  various  pho- 
tographs having  the  names  of  women  from  foreign  coun- 
tries, the  lad's  admiration  was  greater  still.  Everybody 
must  have  been  madly  in  love  with  the  captain  of  the 
Mare  Nostrum.  Ay!  No  matter  what  he  might  do  when 
he  became  a  man,  he  could  never  hope  to  equal  this  tri- 
umphant creature  who  had  given  him  existence.  .  .  . 

When  the  boat,  on  its  return  from  Naples,  arrived 
at  Barcelona  without  its  owner,  Ferragut's  son  did  not 
feel  any  surprise. 

Toni,  who  was  always  a  man  of  few  words,  was  very 
lavish  with  them  on  the  present  occasion.  Captain  Fer- 
ragut  had  remained  behind  because  of  important  busi- 
ness, but  he  would  not  be  long  in  returning.  His  second 
was  looking  for  him  at  any  moment.  Perhaps  he  would 
make  the  trip  by  land,  in  order  to  arrive  sooner. 

Esteban  was  astounded  to  see  that  his  mother  did 
not  accept  this  absence  as  an  insignificant  event.  The 
good  lady  appeared  greatly  troubled  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  Her  feminine  instinct  made  her  suspect 
something  ominous  in  her  husband's  delay. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  her  old  lover,  the  professor, 
visited  her  as  usual,  the  two  talked  slowly  with  guarded 
words  but  with  eyes  of  understanding  and  long  inter- 
vals of  silence. 

When  Don  Pedro  reached  the  height  of  his  glorious  ca-» 


3o8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

reer,  the  possession  of  a  professorship  in  the  institute 
of  Barcelona,  he  used  to  visit  Cinta  every  afternoon, 
passing  an  hour  and  a  half  in  her  parlor  with  chronome- 
tric  exactitude.  Never  did  the  slightest  impure  thought 
agitate  the  professor.  The  past  had  fallen  into  oblivion. 
.  .  .  But  he  needed  to  see  daily  the  captain's  wife  weav- 
ing laces  with  her  two  little  nieces,  as  he  had  seen  Ferra- 
gut's  widow  years  before. 

He  informed  them  of  the  most  important  events  in 
Barcelona  and  in  the  entire  world ;  they  would  comment 
together  on  the  future  of  Esteban,  and  the  former  suitor 
used  to  listen  rapturously  to  her  sweet  voice,  conceding 
great  importance  to  the  details  of  domestic  economy  or 
descriptions  of  religious  fiestas,  solely  because  it  was  she 
who  was  recounting  them. 

Many  times  they  would  remain  in  a  long  silence. 
Don  Pedro  represented  patience,  even  temper,  and  silent 
respect,  in  that  tranquil  and  immaculate  house  which  lost 
its  monastic  calm  only  when  its  head  presented  himself 
there  for  a  few  days  between  voyages. 

Cinta  had  accustomed  herself  to  the  professor's  visits. 
At  half-past  three  by  the  clock  his  footsteps  could  always 
be  heard  in  the  passageway. 

If  any  afternoon  he  did  not  come,  the  sweet  Penelope 
was  greatly  disappointed. 

"I  wonder  what  can  be  the  matter  with  Don  Pedro?" 
she  would  ask  her  nieces  uneasily. 

She  oftentimes  asked  this  question  of  her  son;  but 
Esteban,  without  exactly  hating  the  visitor,  appreciated 
him  very  slightly. 

Don  Pedro  belonged  to  that  group  of  gentlemen  at  the 
Institute  whom  the  government  paid  to  annoy  youth 
with  their  explanations  and  their  examinations.  He  still 
remembered  the  two  years  that  he  had  passed  in  his 
course,  as  in  the  torture  chamber,  enduring  the  tor- 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  309 

ments  of  Latin.  Besides  that,  the  professor  was  a  timid 
man  who  was  always  afraid  of  catching  cold,  and  who 
never  dared  to  venture  into  the  street  on  cloudy  days 
without  an  umbrella.  Let  people  talk  to  him  about 
courageous  men! 

"I  don't  know,"  he  would  reply  to  his  mother.  "Per- 
haps he's  gone  to  bed  with  seven  kerchiefs  on  his  head." 

When  Don  Pedro  returned,  the  house  recovered  its 
normality  of  a  quiet  and  well-regulated  clock.  Dona 
Cinta,  after  many  consultations,  had  come  to  believe  his 
collaboration  indispensable.  The  professor  mildly  sup- 
plemented the  authority  of  the  traveling  husband,  and 
took  it  upon  himself  to  represent  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily in  all  outside  matters.  .  .  .  Many  times  Ferragut's 
wife  would  be  awaiting  him  with  impatience  in  order  to 
ask  his  mature  counsel,  and  he  would  emit  his  opinion 
in  a  slow  voice  after  long  reflection. 

Esteban  found  it  intolerable  that  this  gentleman,  who 
Was  no  more  than  a  distant  relative  of  his  grandmother, 
should  meddle  in  the  affairs  of  the  house,  pretending 
to  oversee  him  as  though  he  were  his  father.  But  it 
irritated  him  still  more  to  see  him  in  a  good  humor  and 
trying  to  be  funny.  It  made  him  furious  to  hear  his 
mother  called  "Penelope"  and  himself  "the  young  Telem- 
achus."  .  .  .  "Stupid,  tedious  old  bore!" 

The  young  Telemachus  was  not  slow  to  wrath  nor 
vengeance.  From  babyhood  he  had  interrupted  his  play 
in  order  to  "work"  in  the  reception  room  near  to  the 
hatrack  by  the  door.  And  the  poor  professor  on  his 
departure  would  find  his  hat  crown  dented  in  or  its 
nap  roughened  up,  or  he  would  sally  home  innocently 
carrying  spitballs  on  the  skirts  of  his  overcoat. 

Now  the  boy  contented  himself  with  simply  ignoring 
the  existence  of  the  family  friend,  passing  in  front  of 


3io  MARE  NOSTRUM 

him  without  recognizing  him  and  only  greeting  him  when 
his  mother  ordered  him  to  do  so. 

The  day  in  which  he  brought  the  news  of  the  return 
of  the  ship  without  its  captain,  Don  Pedro  made  a  longer 
visit  than  usual.  Cinto  shed  two  tears  upon  the  lace, 
but  had  to  stop  weeping,  vanquished  by  the  good  sense 
of  her  counselor. 

"Why  weep  and  get  your  mind  overwrought  with  so 
many  suppositions  without  foundation?  .  .  .  What  you 
ought  to  do,  my  daughter,  is  to  call  in  this  Toni  who  is 
mate  of  the  vessel ;  he  must  know  all  about  it.  ...  Per- 
haps he  may  tell  you  the  truth." 

Esteban  was  told  to  hunt  him  up  the  following  day, 
and  he  quickly  noticed  Toni's  extreme  disquietude  upon 
learning  that  Dona  Cinta  wished  to  talk  with  him.  The 
mate  left  the  boat  in  lugubrious  silence  as  though  he  were 
being  taken  away  to  mortal  torment:  then  he  began  to 
hum  loudly,  an  indication  that  he  was  in  deep  thought. 

The  young  Telemachus  was  not  able  to  be  present  at 
the  interview  but  he  hung  around  the  closed  door  and 
succeeded  in  hearing  a  few  loud  words  which  slipped 
through  the  cracks.  His  mother  was  speaking  with 
greater  frequency.  Toni  was  reiterating  in  a  dull  voice 
the  same  excuse: — "I  don't  know.  The  captain  will 
come  at  any  moment.  .  .  ."  But  when  the  mate  found 
himself  outside  the  house,  his  wrath  broke  out  against 
himself,  against  his  cursed  character  that  did  not  know 
how  to  lie,  against  all  women  bad  and  good.  He  believed 
he  had  said  too  much.  That  lady  had  the  skill  of  a  judge 
in  getting  words  out  of  him. 

That  night,  at  the  supper  hour,  the  mother  scarcely 
opened  her  mouth.  Her  fingers  communicated  a  nervous 
trembling  to  the  plates  and  forks,  and  she  looked  at  her 
son  with  tragic  commiseration  as  though  she  foresaw 
terrible  troubles  about  to  burst  upon  his  head.  She 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  311 

opposed  a  desperate  silence  to  Esteban's  questions  and 
finally  exclaimed : 

"Your  father  is  deserting  us!  .  .  .  Your  father  has 
forgotten  us !  .  .  . " 

And  she  left  the  dining-room  to  hide  her  overflowing 
tears. 

The  boy  slept  rather  restlessly,  but  he  slept.  The 
admiration  which  he  always  felt  for  his  father  and  a 
certain  solidarity  with  the  strong  examples  of  his  sex 
made  him  take  little  account  of  these  complaints.  Matters 
for  women!  His  mother  just  didn't  know  how  to  be 
the  wife  of  an  extraordinary  man  like  Captain  Ferragut. 
He  who  was  really  a  man,  in  spite  of  his  few  years, 
was  going  to  intervene  in  this  affair  in  order  to  show 
up  the  truth. 

When  Toni,  from  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  saw  the  lad 
coming  along  the  wharf  the  following  morning,  he  was 
greatly  tempted  to  hide  himself.  .  .  .  "If  Dona  Cinta 
should  call  me  again  in  order  to  question  me !  .  .  ."  But 
he  calmed  himself  with  the  thought  that  the  boy  was 
probably  coming  of  his  own  free  will  to  pass  a  few  hours 
on  the  Mare  Nostrum.  Even  so,  he  wished  to  avoid  his 
presence  as  though  he  feared  some  slip  in  talking  with 
him,  and  so  pretended  that  he  had  work  in  the  hold. 
Then  he  left  the  boat  going  to  visit  a  friend  on  a  steamer 
some  distance  off. 

Esteban  entered  the  galley,  calling  gayly  to  Uncle 
Caragol.  He  wasn't  the  same,  either.  His  humid  and 
reddish  eyes  were  looking  at  the  child  with  an  extraor- 
dinary tenderness.  Suddenly  he  stopped  his  talk  with 
an  expression  of  uneasiness  on  his  face.  He  looked 
uncertainly  around  him,  as  though  fearing  that  a  precipice 
might  open  at  his  feet. 

Never  forgetful  of  the  respect  dite  to  every  visitor 
in  his  dominion,  he  prepared  two  "refrescos."  He  was 


3i2  MARE  NOSTRUM 

going  to  treat  Esteban  for  the  first  time  on  this  return 
trip.  On  former  days,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  he 
had  not  thought  of  making  even  one  of  his  delicious 
beverages.  The  return  from  Naples  to  Barcelona  had 
been  a  sad  one :  the  vessel  had  a  funereal  air  without  its 
master. 

For  all  these  reasons,  Caragol's  hand  lavishly  measured 
out  the  rum  until  the  liquid  took  on  a  tobacco  tone. 

They  drank  .  .  .  The  young  Telemachus  began  to  talk 
about  his  father  when  the  glasses  were  only  half  empty, 
and  the  cook  waved  both  hands  in  the  air,  giving  a  grunt 
which  signified  that  he  had  no  wish  to  bother  about  the 
captain's  absence. 

"Your  father  will  return,  Esteban,"  he  added.  "He 
will  return  but  I  don't  know  when.  Certainly  later 
than  Toni  says." 

And  not  wishing  to  say  more,  he  gulped  down  the  rest 
of  the  glass,  devoting  himself  hastily  to  the  confection 
of  the  second  "refresco"  in  order  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

Little  by  little  he  slipped  away  from  the  prudent 
barrier  that  was  hedging  in  his  verbosity  and  spoke  with 
his  old  time  abandon;  but  his  flow  of  words  did  not 
exactly  convey  news. 

Caragol  preached  morality  to  Ferragut's  son, — mo- 
rality from  his  standpoint,  interrupted  by  frequent 
caresses  of  the  glass. 

"Esteban,  my  son,  respect  your  father  greatly.  Imitate 
him  as  a  seaman.  Be  good  and  just  toward  the  men  that 
you  command.  .  .  .  But  avoid  the  females !" 

The  women!  .  .  .  There  was  no  better  theme  for  his 
piously  drunken  eloquence.  The  world  inspired  his  pity. 
It  was  all  governed  by  the  infernal  attraction  exercised 
by  the  female  of  the  species.  The  men  were  working, 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS 

Struggling,  and  trying  to  grow  rich  and  celebrated,  all  in 
order  to  possess  one  of  these  creatures. 

"Believe  me,  my  son,  and  do  not  imitate  your  father 
in  this  respect." 

The  old  man  had  said  too  much  to  back  out  now  and 
he  had  to  go  on,  letting  out  the  rest  of  it,  bit  by  bit.  Thus 
Esteban  learned  that  the  captain  was  enamored  with  a 
lady  in  Naples  and  that  he  had  remained  there  pretending 
business  matters,  but  in  reality  dominated  by  this 
woman's  influence. 

"Is  she  pretty?"  asked  the  boy  eagerly. 

"Very  pretty,"  replied  Caragol.  "And  such  odors! 
.  .  .  And  such  a  swishing  of  fine  clothes !  .  .  ." 

Telemachus  thrilled  with  contradictory  sensations  of 
pride  and  envy.  He  admired  his  father  once  more,  but 
this  admiration  only  lasted  a  few  seconds.  A  new  idea 
was  taking  possession  of  him  while  the  cook  continued: 

"He  will  not  come  now.  I  know  what  these  elegant 
females  are,  reeking  with  perfume.  They  are  true 
demons  that  dig  their  nails  in  when  they  clutch,  and  it  is 
necessary  to  cut  off  their  hands  in  order  to  loosen 
them.  .  .  .  And  the  boat  as  useless  now  as  though  it 
were  aground,  while  the  others  are  filling  themselves  with 
gold!  .  .  .  Believe  me,  my  son,  this  is  the  only  truth 
in  the  world." 

And  he  concluded  by  gulping  in  one  draft  all  that 
was  left  in  the  second  glass. 

Meanwhile  the  boy  was  forming  in  his  mind  an  idea 
prompted  by  his  pleasant  intoxication.  What  if  he 
should  go  to  Naples  in  order  to  bring  his  father 
back!  .  .  . 

At  this  moment  everything  seemed  possible  to  him. 
The  world  was  rose-colored  as  it  always  was  when  he 
looked  at  it,  glass  in  hand,  near  to  Uncle  Caragol.  All 
obstacles  would  turn  out  to  be  trifling :  everything  would 


3i4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

arrange  itself  with  wonderful  facility.  Men  were  able 
to  progress  by  bounds. 

But  hours  afterward  when  his  thoughts  were  cleared 
of  their  beatific  visions,  he  felt  a  little  fearful  when 
recollecting  his  absent  parent.  How  would  he  receive 
him  upon  his  arrival?  .  .  .  What  excuses  could  he  give 
his  father  for  his  presence  in  Naples  ?  .  .  .  He  trembled, 
recalling  the  image  of  his  scowling  brow  and  angry  eyes. 

On  the  following  day  a  sudden  self-confidence  replaced 
this  uneasiness.  He  recalled  the  captain  as  he  had  seen 
him  many  times  on  the  deck  of  his  vessel,  telling  of  his 
escapades  when  rowing  in  the  harbor  of  Barcelona,  or 
commenting  to  friends  on  his  son's  strength  and  intelli- 
gence. The  image  of  the  paternal  hero  now  came  to  his 
mind  with  good-humored  eyes  and  a  smile  passing  like 
a  fresh  breeze  over  his  face. 

He  would  tell  him  the  whole  truth.  He  would  make 
him  understand  that  he  had  come  to  Naples  just  to  take 
him  away  with  him,  like  a  good  comrade  who  comes  to 
another's  rescue  in  time  of  danger.  Perhaps  he  might  be 
irritated  and  give  him  a  blow,  but  he  would  eventually 
accede  to  his  proposition. 

Ferragut's  character  was  reborn  in  him  with  all  the 
force  of  decisive  argument.  And  if  the  voyage  should 
prove  absurd  and  dangerous?  .  .  .  All  the  better!  So 
much  the  better!  That  was  enough  to  make  him 
undertake  it.  He  was  a  man  and  should  know  no  fear. 

During  the  next  two  weeks  he  prepared  his  flight.  He 
had  never  taken  a  long  journey.  Only  once  he  had 
accompanied  his  father  on  a  flying  business  trip  to 
Marseilles.  It  was  high  time  that  he  should  go  out  in 
the  world  like  the  man  that  he  was,  acquainted  with 
almost  all  the  cities  of  the  earth, — through  his  readings. 

The  money  question  did  not  worry  him  any.  Dona 
Cinta  had  it  in  abundance  and  it  was  easy  to  find  her 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  315 

bunch  of  keys.  An  old  and  slow-going  steamer,  com- 
manded by  one  of  his  father's  friends,  had  just  entered 
port  and  the  following  day  would  weigh  anchor  for  Italy. 

This  sailor  accepted  the  son  of  his  old  comrade  without 
any  traveling  papers.  He  would  arrange  all  irregular- 
ities with  his  friends  in  Genoa.  Between  captains  they 
ought  to  exchange  such  services,  and  Ulysses  Ferragut, 
who  was  awaiting  his  son  in  Naples  (so  Esteban  toM 
him),  would  not  wish  to  waste  time  just  because  of  some 
ridiculous,  red  tape  formality. 

Telemachus  with  a  thousand  pesetas  in  his  pocket, 
extracted  from  a  work  box  which  his  mother  used  as  a 
cash  box,  embarked  the  following  day.  A  little  suit-case, 
taken  from  his  home  with  deliberate  and  skillful  pre- 
caution, formed  his  entire  baggage. 

From  Genoa  he  went  to  Rome,  and  from  there  to 
Naples,  with  the  foolhardiness  of  the  innocent,  employing 
Spanish  and  Catalan  words  to  reinforce  his  scanty 
Italian  vocabulary  acquired  at  the  opera.  The  only 
positive  information  that  guided  him  on  his  quest  of 
adventure  was  the  name  of  the  cdbergo  on  the  shore  of 
S.  Lucia  which  Caragol  had  given  him  as  his  father's 
residence. 

He  sought  him  vainly  for  many  days  and  visited  in 
Naples  the  consignees  who  thought  that  the  captain  had 
returned  to  his  country  some  time  ago. 

Not  finding  him,  he  began  to  be  afraid.  He  ought  to 
be  back  in  Barcelona  by  this  time  and  what  he  had  begun 
as  an  heroic  voyage  was  going  to  turn  into  a  runaway,  a 
boyish  escapade.  He  thought  of  his  mother  who  was 
perhaps  weeping  hours  at  a  time,  reading  and  rereading 
the  letter  that  he  had  left  for  her  explaining  the  object 
of  his  flight.  Besides,  Italy's  intervention  in  the  war, — 
an  event  which  every  one  had  been  expecting  but  had 
supposed  to  be  still  a  long  way  off, — had  suddenly  become 


316  MARE  NOSTRUM 

an  actual  fact.  What  was  there  left  for  him  to  do  in  this 
country?  .  .  .  And  one  morning  he  had  disappeared. 

Since  the  hotel  porter  could  not  tell  him  anything  more, 
the  father,  after  his  first  impression  of  surprise  had 
passed,  thought  it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  visit  the  firm 
of  consignees.  Perhaps  there  they  might  give  him  some 
news. 

The  war  was  the  only  thing  of  interest  in  that  office. 
But  Ferragut,  owner  of  a  ship  and  a  former  client,  was 
guided  by  the  director  to  the  employees  who  had  re- 
ceived Esteban. 

They  did  not  know  much  about  it.  They  recalled 
vaguely  a  young  Spaniard  who  said  that  he  was  the 
captain's  son  and  was  making  inquiries  about  him.  His 
last  visit  had  been  two  days  before.  He  was  then  hesi- 
tating between  returning  to  his  country  by  rail  or 
embarking  in  one  of  the  three  steamers  that  were  in 
port  ready  to  sail  for  Marseilles. 

"I  believe  that  he  has  gone  by  railroad,"  said  one  of 
the  clerks. 

Another  of  the  office  force  supported  his  companion's 
supposition  with  a  positive  affirmation  in  order  to  attract 
the  attention  of  his  chief.  He  was  sure  of  his  departure 
by  land.  He  himself  had  helped  him  to  calculate  what 
the  trip  to  Barcelona  would  cost  him. 

Ferragut  did  not  wish  to  know  more.  He  must  get 
away  as  soon  as  possible.  This  inexplicable  voyage  of 
his  son  filled  him  with  remorse  and  immeasurable  alarm. 
He  wondered  what  could  have  occurred  in  his  home.  .  .  . 

The  director  of  the  offices  pointed  out  to  him  a 
French  steamer  from  Suez  that  was  sailing  that  very 
afternoon  to  Marseilles,  and  took  upon  himself  all  the 
arrangements  concerning  his  passage  and  recommen- 
dation to  the  captain.  There  only  remained  four  hours 
before  the  boat's  departure,  and  Ulysses,  after  collecting 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  317 

his  valises  and  sending  them  aboard,  took  a  last  stroll 
through  all  the  places  where  he  had  lived  with  Freya. 
Adieu,  gardens  of  the  Villa  Nazionale  and  white 
Aquarium!  .  .  .  Farewell,  albergo!  .  .  . 

His  son's  mysterious  presence  in  Naples  had  intensified 
his  disgust  at  the  German  girl's  flight.  He  thought  sadly 
of  lost  love,  but  at  the  same  time  he  thought  with  dolorous 
suspense  of  what  might  greet  him  when  reentering  his 
home. 

A  little  before  sunset  the  French  steamer  weighed 
anchor.  It  had  been  many  years  since  Ulysses  had  sailed 
as  a  simple  passenger.  Entirely  out  of  his  element,  he 
wandered  over  the  decks  and  among  the  crowds  of 
tourists.  Force  of  habit  drew  him  to  the  bridge,  talking 
with  the  captain  and  the  officers,  who  from  his  very  first 
words  recognized  his  professional  genius. 

Realizing  that  he  was  no  more  than  an  intruder  in  this 
place,  and  annoyed  at  finding  himself  on  a  bridge  from 
which  he  could  not  give  a  single  order,  he  descended  to 
the  lower  decks,  examining  the  groups  of  passengers. 
They  were  mostly  French,  coming  from  Indo-China.  On 
prow  and  poop  there  were  quartered  four  companies  of 
Asiatic  sharpshooters, — little,  yellowish,  with  oblique  eyes 
and  voices  like  the  miauling  of  cats.  They  were  going  to 
the  war.  Their  officers  lived  in  the  staterooms  in  the 
center  of  the  ship,  taking  with  them  their  families  who 
had  icquired  a  foreign  aspect  during  their  long  residence 
in  the  colonies. 

Ulysses  saw  ladies  clad  in  white  stretched  out  on  their 
steamer  chairs,  having  themselves  fanned  by  their  little 
Chinese  pages ;  he  saw  bronzed  and  weather-beaten 
soldiers  who  appeared  disgusted  yet  galvanized  by  the 
war  that  was  snatching  them  from  their  Asiatic  siesta, 
and  children, — many  children — delighted  to  go  to 
France,  the  country  of  their  dreams,  forgetting  in  their 


3i8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

happiness  that  their  fathers  were  probably  going  to  their 
death. 

The  passage  could  not  have  been  smoother.  The 
Mediterranean  was  like  a  silver  plain  in  the  moonlight. 
From  the  invisible  coast  came  warm  puffs  of  garden 
perfumes.  The  groups  on  deck  reminded  one  another, 
with  selfish  satisfaction,  of  the  great  dangers  that  threat- 
ened the  people  embarking  in  the  North  Sea,  harassed  by 
German  submarines.  Fortunately  the  Mediterranean 
was  free  from  such  calamity.  The  English  had  so  well 
guarded  the  port  of  Gibraltar  that  it  was  all  a  tranquil 
lake  dominated  by  the  Allies. 

Before  going  to  bed,  the  captain  entered  a  room  on  the 
upper  deck  where  was  installed  the  wireless  telegraph 
outfit.  The  hissing  as  of  frying  oil  that  the  apparatus 
was  sending  out  attracted  him.  The  operator,  a  young 
Englishman,  took  off  his  nickel  band  with  two  ear- 
phones. Greatly  bored  by  his  isolation,  he  was  trying  to 
distract  himself  by  conversing  with  the  operators  on  the 
other  vessels  that  came  within  the  radius  of  his  apparatus. 
They  kept  in  constant  communication  like  a  group  of 
comrades  making  the  same  trip  and  conversing  placidly 
together. 

From  time  to  time  the  operator,  advised  by  the  sparking 
of  his  induction  coils,  would  put  on  the  diadem  with  ear 
pieces  in  order  to  listen  to  his  far-away  comrades. 

"It  is  the  man  on  the  Calif  ornian  bidding  me  good- 
night," he  said  after  one  of  these  calls.  "He  is  going  to 
bed.  There's  no  news." 

And  the  young  man  eulogized  Mediterranean  naviga- 
tion. At  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  he  had  been  on  another 
vessel  going  from  London  to  New  York  and  he  recalled 
the  unquiet  nights,  the  days  of  anxious  vigilance,  search- 
ing the  sea  and  the  atmosphere,  fearing  from  one  moment 
to  another  the  appearance  of  a  periscope  upon  the  waters, 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  319 

or  the  electric  warning  of  a  steamer  torpedoed  by  the 
submarine.  On  this  sea,  one  could  live  as  tranquilly  a$ 
in  times  of  peace. 

Ferragut  suspected  that  the  poor  operator  was  ver# 
anxious  to  enjoy  the  delights  of  such  tranquillity.  His 
companion  in  service  was  snoring  in  a  nearby  cabin  and 
he  was  anxious  to  imitate  him,  putting  his  head  down  on 
the  table  of  the  apparatus.  .  .  .  "Until  to-morrow !" 

The  captain  also  fell  asleep  as  soon  as  he  had  stretched 
himself  out  on  the  narrow  ledge  in  his  stateroom.  His 
sleep  was  all  in  one  piece,  gloomy  and  complete,  without 
sudden  surprises  or  visions.  Just  as  he  was  feeling  that 
only  a  few  moments  had  passed  by,  he  was  violently 
awakened  as  though  some  one  had  given  him  a  shove. 
In  the  dim  light  he  could  make  out  only  the  round  glass 
of  the  port  hole,  tenuously  blue  and  veiled  by  the 
humidity  of  the  maritine  dew,  like  a  tearful  eye. 

Day  was  breaking  and  something  extraordinary  had 
just  occurred  on  the  boat.  Ferragut  was  accustomed  to 
sleep  with  the  lightness  of  a  captain  who  needs  to 
awaken  opportunely.  A  mysterious  perception  of 
danger  had  cut  short  his  repose.  He  distinguished  over 
his  head  the  patter  of  quick  runnings  the  whole  length  of 
the  deck ;  he  heard  voices.  While  dressing  as  quickly  as 
possible  he  realized  that  the  rudder  was  working 
violently,  and  that  the  vessel  was  changing  its  course. 

Coming  up  on  deck,  one  glance  was  sufficient  to  con- 
vince him  that  the  ship  was  not  running  any  danger. 
Everything  about  it  presented  a  normal  aspect.  The 
sea,  still  dark,  was  gently  lapping  the  sides  of  the  vessel 
which  continued  going  forward  with  regular  motion.  The 
decks  were  cleared  of  passengers.  They  were  all  sleeping 
in  their  staterooms.  Only  on  the  bridge  he  saw  a  group 
of  persons: — the  captain  and  all  the  officers,  some  of 


320  MARE  NOSTRUM 

them  dressed  very  lightly  as  though  they  had  been  roused 
from  slumber. 

Passing  by  the  wireless  office,  he  obtained  an  explana- 
tion of  the  matter.  The  youth  of  the  night  before  was 
near  the  door  and  his  companion  was  now  wearing  the 
head  phone  and  tapping  the  keys  of  the  apparatus,  listen- 
ing and  replying  to  invisible  boats. 

An  half  hour  before,  just  as  the  English  operator  was 
going  off  guard  and  giving  place  to  his  just  awakened 
companion,  a  signal  had  kept  him  in  his  seat.  The 
California*  was  sending  out  by  wireless  the  danger  call, 
the  S.  O.  S.,  that  is  only  employed  when  a  ship  needs 
help.  Then  in  the  space  of  a  few  seconds  a  mysterious 
voice  had  spread  its  tragic  story  over  hundreds  of  miles. 
A  submersible  had  just  appeared  a  short  distance  from 
the  Calif  ornian  and  had  fired  several  shells  at  it.  The 
English  boat  was  trying  to  escape,  relying  on  its  superior 
speed.  Then  the  submarine  had  fired  a  torpedo.  .  .  . 

All  this  had  occurred  in  twenty  minutes.  Suddenly 
the  echoes  of  the  distant  tragedy  were  extinguished  as  the 
communication  was  cut  off.  A  prolonged,  intense, 
sibilant  buzzing  in  the  apparatus,  and — nothing!  .  .  . 
Absolute  silence. 

The  operator  now  on  duty  responded  with  negative 
movements  to  his  companion's  inquiring  glances.  He 
could  hear  nothing  but  the  dialogue  between  the  boats  that 
had  received  the  same  warning.  They  too  were  alarmed 
by  the  sudden  silence,  and  were  changing  their  course 
going,  like  the  French  steamer,  toward  the  place  where 
the  Calif  ornian  had  met  the  submersible. 

"Can  it  be  that  they  are  already  in  the  Mediterranean!" 
the  operator  exclaimed  with  astonishment  on  finishing  his 
report.  "Plow  could  the  submarines  possibly  get  'way 
down  here?  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  did  not  dare  to  go  up  on  the  bridge.    He  was 

" 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  321 

afraid  that  the  glances  of  those  men  of  the  sea  might 
fasten  themselves  accusingly  upon  him.  He  believed 
that  they  could  read  his  thoughts. 

A  passenger  ship  had  just  been  sunk  at  a  relatively 
short  distance  from  the  boat  on  which  he  was  traveling. 
Perhaps  von  Kramer  was  the  author  of  the  crime.  With 
good  reason  he  had  charged  Ulysses  to  tell  his  com- 
patriots that  they  would  soon  hear  of  his  exploits.  And 
Ferragut  had  aided  in  the  preparation  of  this  maritime 
barbarity!  .  .  . 

"What  have  you  done  ?  What  have  you  done  ?"  wrath- 
fully  demanded  his  mental  voice  of  good  counsel. 

An  hour  afterward  he  felt  ashamed  to  remain  on  deck. 
In  spite  of  the  captain's  orders,  the  news  had  got  out  and 
was  circulating  among  the  staterooms.  Entire  families 
were  rushing  up  on  deck,  frightened  out  of  the  calm- 
ness usually  reigning  on  the  boat,  arranging  their 
clothes  with  precipitation,  and  struggling  to  adjust  to 
their  bodies  the  life-preservers  which  they  were  trying 
on  for  the  first  time.  The  children  were  howling, 
terrified  by  the  alarm  of  their  parents.  Some  nervous 
women  were  shedding  tears  without  any  apparent  cause. 
The  boat  was  going  toward  the  place  where  the  other  one 
had  been  torpedoed,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  the 
alarmists  imagine  that  the  enemy  would  remain  absolutely 
motionless  in  the  same  place,  awaiting  their  arrival  in 
order  to  repeat  their  attack. 

Hundreds  of  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  sea,  scrutinizing 
the  surface  of  the  waves,  believing  every  object  which 
they  saw, — bits  of  wood,  seaweed  or  crates  floating  on 
the  surface  of  the  water, — to  be  the  top  of  a  periscope. 

The  officials  of  the  battalion  of  snipers  had  gone  to 
prow  and  poop  in  order  to  maintain  discipline  among 
their  men.  But  the  Asiatics,  scornful  of  death,  had  not 
abandoned  their  serene  apathy.  Some  merely  looked  out 


322  MARE  NOSTRUM 

over  the  sea  with  a  childish  curiosity,  anxious  to  become 
acquainted  with  this  new  diabolical  toy,  invented  by  the 
superior  races.  On  the  decks  reserved  for  first  class 
passengers  astonishment  was  as  great  as  the  uneasiness. 

"Submarines  in  the  Mediterranean!  .  .  .  But  is  it 
possible?  .  .  ." 

Those  last  to  awake  appeared  very  incredulous  and 
could  only  be  convinced  of  what  had  occurred  when 
they  heard  the  news  from  the  boat's  crew. 

Ferragut  wandered  around  like  a  soul  in  torment. 
Remorse  made  him  hide  himself  in  his  stateroom.  These 
people  with  their  complaints  and  their  comments  were 
causing  him  great  annoyance.  Soon  he  found  that  he 
could  not  remain  in  this  isolation.  He  needed  to  see  and 
to  know, — like  a  criminal  who  returns  to  the  place  where 
he  has  committed  his  crime. 

At  midday  they  began  to  see  on  the  horizon  various 
little  clouds.  They  were  the  ships  hastening  from  all 
sides,  attracted  by  this  unexpected  attack. 

The  French  boat  that  was  sailing  ahead  of  them 
suddenly  moderated  its  speed.  They  had  come  into 
the  zone  of  the  shipwreck.  In  the  lookouts  were 
sailors  exploring  the  sea  and  shouting  the  orders  that 
guided  the  steamer's  course.  During  these  evolutions, 
there  began  to  slip  past  the  vessel's  sides  the  remains  of 
the  tragic  event. 

The  two  rows  of  heads  lined  up  on  the  different  decks 
saw  life  preservers  floating  by  empty,  a  boat  with  its 
keel  in  the  air,  and  bits  of  wood  belonging  to  a  raft 
evidently  constructed  in  great  haste  and  never  finished. 

Suddenly  a  howl  from  a  thousand  voices,  followed  by 
a  funereal  silence.  .  .  .  The  body  of  a  woman  lying  on 
some  planks  passed  by.  One  of  her  legs  was  thrust  into  a 
gray  silk  stocking,  her  head  was  hanging  on  the  opposite 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  323 

side,  spreading  its  blonde  locks  over  the  water  like  a 
bunch  of  gilded  seaweed. 

Her  firm  and  juvenile  bust  was  visible  through  the 
opening  of  a  drenched  nightgown  which  was  outlining 
her  body  with  unavoidable  immodesty.  She  had  been 
surprised  by  the  shipwreck  at  the  very  moment  that  she 
had  been  trying  to  dress;  perhaps  terror  had  made  her 
throw  herself  into  the  sea.  Death  had  twisted  her  face 
with  a  horrible  contraction,  exposing  the  teeth.  One 
side  of  her  face  was  swollen  from  some  blow. 

Looking  over  the  shoulders  of  two  ladies  who  were 
trembling  and  leaning  against  the  deck-railing,  Ferragut 
caught  a  glimpse  of  this  corpse.  In  his  turn  the  vigorous 
sailor  trembled  like  a  woman,  and  his  eyes  filmed  with 
mistiness.  He  simply  could  not  look  at  it!  ...  And 
again  he  went  down  into  his  stateroom  to  hide  himself. 

An  Italian  torpedo-destroyer  was  maneuvering 
among  the  remains  of  the  shipwreck,  as  though  seeking 
the  footprints  of  the  author  of  the  crime.  The  steamers 
stopped  their  circular  course  of  exploration  to  lower  the 
lifeboats  into  the  water  and  collect  the  corpses  and 
bodies  of  the  living  near  to  death. 

The  captain  in  his  desperate  imprisonment  heard  new 
shrieks  announcing  an  extraordinary  event.  Again  the 
cruel  necessity  of  knowing  what  it  could  be  dragged 
him  from  his  stateroom ! 

A  boat  full  of  people  had  been  found  by  the  steamer. 
The  other  ships  were  also  meeting  little  by  little  the  rest 
of  the  life  boats  occupied  by  the  survivors  of  the 
catastrophe.  The  general  rescue  was  going  to  be  a  very 
short  piece  of  work. 

The  most  agile  of  the  shipwrecked  people,  on  reaching 
the  deck,  found  themselves  surrounded  by  sympathetic 
groups  lamenting  their  misfortune  and  at  the  same 
time  offering  them  hot  drinks.  Others,  after  staggering 


324  MARE  NOSTRUM 

a   few   steps  as   though   intoxicated,   collapsed   on 
benches.     Some  had  to  be  hoisted  from  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  and  carried  in  a  chair  to  the  ship's  hospital. 

Various  British  soldiers,  serene  and  phlegmatic,  upon 
climbing1  on  deck  asked  for  a  pipe  and  began  to  smoke 
vigorously.  Other  shipwrecked  people,  lightly  clad, 
simply  rolled  themselves  up  in  shawls,  beginning  the 
account  of  the  catastrophe  as  minutely  and  serenely  as 
though  they  were  in  a  parlor.  A  period  of  ten  hours  in 
the  crowded  narrowness  of  the  boat,  drifting  at  random 
in  the  hope  of  aid,  had  not  broken  down  their  energy. 

The  women  showed  greater  desperation.  Ferragut 
saw  in  the  center  of  a  group  of  ladies  a  young  English 
girl,  blond,  slender,  elegant,  who  was  sobbing  and 
stammering  explanations.  She  had  found  herself  in  a 
launch,  separated  from  her  parents,  without  knowing 
how.  Perhaps  they  were  dead  by  this  time.  Her  slight 
hope  was  that  they  might  have  sought  refuge  in  some 
other  boat  and  been  picked  up  by  any  one  of  the  steamers 
that  had  happened  to  see  them. 

A  desperate  grief,  noisy,  meridional,  silenced  with  its 
moanings  the  noise  of  conversation.  There  had  just 
climbed  aboard  a  poor  Italian  woman  carrying  a  baby 
in  her  arms. 

fe Figlia  mid'!  .  .  .  Mia  figlia!  .  .  ."  she  was  wailing 
with  disheveled  hair  and  eyes  swollen  by  weeping. 

In  the  moment  of  the  shipwreck  she  had  lost  a  little 
girl,  eight  years  old,  and  upon  finding  herself  in  the 
French  steamer,  she  went  instinctively  toward  the  prow 
in  search  of  the  same  spot  which  she  had  occupied  on 
the  other  ship,  as  though  expecting  to  find  her  daughter 
there.  Her  agonized  voice  penetrated  down  the  stairway : 
"Figlia  mia!  .  .  .  Mia  figlia!" 

Ulysses  could  not  stand  it.  That  voice  hurt  him,  as 
though  its  piercing  cry  were  clawing  at  his  brain. 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  325 

He  approached  a  group  in  the  center  of  which  was  a 
young  barefooted  lad  in  trousers  and  shirt  open  at  the 
breast  who  was  talking  and  talking,  wrapping  himself 
from  time  to  time  in  a  shawl  that  some  one  had  placed 
upon  his  shoulders. 

He  was  describing  in  a  mixture  of  French  and  Italian 
the  loss  of  the  Calif ornian. 

He  had  been  awakened  by  hearing  the  first  shot  fired 
by  the  submersible  against  his  steamer.  The  chase  had 
lasted  half  an  hour. 

The  most  audacious  and  curious  were  on  the  decks 
and  believed  their  salvation  already  sure  as  they  saw 
their  ship  leaving  its  enemy  behind.  Suddenly  a  black 
line  had  cut  the  sea,  something  like  a  long  thorn  with 
splinters  of  foam  which  was  advancing  at  a  dizzying 
speed,  in  bold  relief  against  the  water.  .  .  .  Then  came 
a  blow  on  the  hull  of  the  vessel  which  had  made  it 
shudder  from  stem  to  stern,  not  a  single  plate  nor  screw 
escaping  tremendous  dislocation.  .  .  .  Then  a  volcanic 
explosion,  a  gigantic  hatchet  of  smoke  and  flames,  a 
yellowish  cloud  in  which  were  flying  dark  objects: — 
fragments  of  metal  and  of  wood,  human  bodies  blown  to 
bits.  .  .  .  The  eyes  of  the  narrator  gleamed  with  an 
insane  light  as  he  recalled  the  tragic  sight. 

"A  friend  of  mine,  a  boy  from  my  own  country,"  he 
continued,  sighing,  "had  just  left  me  in  order  to  see 
the  submersible  better  and  he  put  himself  exactly  in  the 
path  of  the  explosion.  .  .  .  He  disappeared  as  suddenly 
as  if  he  had  been  blotted  out.  I  saw  him  and  I  did  not 
see  him.  .  .  .  He  exploded  in  a  thousand  bits,  as  though 
he  had  had  a  bomb  within  his  body." 

And  the  shipwrecked  man,  obsessed  by  this  recol- 
lection, could  hardly  attach  any  importance  to  the  scenes 
following, — the  struggle  of  the  crowds  to  gain  the  boats, 
the  efforts  of  the  officers  to  maintain  order,  the  death  of 


3^6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

many  that,  crazy  with  desperation,  had  thrown  themselves 
into  the  sea,  the  tragic  waiting  huddled  in  barks  that 
were  with  great  difficulty  lowered  to  the  water,  fearing 
a  second  shipwreck  as  soon  as  they  touched  the  waves. 

The  steamer  had  disappeared  in  a  few  moments, — its 
prow  sinking  in  the  waters  and  then  its  smokestacks 
taking  on  a  vertical  position  almost  like  the  leaning  tower 
of  Pisa,  and  its  rudders  turning  crazily  as  the  shudder- 
ing ship  went  down. 

The  narrator  began  to  be  left  alone.  Other  ship- 
wrecked  folk,  telling  their  doleful  tales  at  the  same 
time,  were  now  attracting  the  curious. 

Ferragut  looked  at  this  young  man.  His  physical  type 
and  his  accent  made  him  surmise  that  he  was  a  com- 
patriot. 

"You  are  Spanish?" 

The  shipwrecked  man  replied  affirmatively. 

"A  Catalan?"  continued  Ulysses  in  the  Catalan  idiom. 

A  fresh  oratorical  vehemence  galvanized  the  ship- 
wrecked boy.  "The  gentleman  is  a  Catalan  also?"  .  .  . 
And  smiling  upon  Ferragut  as  though  he  were  a  celestial 
apparition,  he  again  began  the  story  of  his  misfortunes. 

He  was  a  commercial  traveler  from  Barcelona,  and  in 
Naples  he  had  taken  the  sea  route  because  it  had 
seemed  to  him  the  more  rapid  one,  avoiding  the  railroads 
congested  by  Italian  mobilization. 

"Were  there  other  Spaniards  traveling  on  your  boat  ?" 
Ulysses  continued  inquiring. 

"Only  one:  my  friend,  that  boy  of  whom  I  was  just 
speaking.  The  explosion  of  the  torpedo  blew  him  into 
bits.  I  saw  him.  .  .  ." 

The  captain  felt  his  remorse  constantly  increasing.  A 
compatriot,  a  poor  young  fellow,  had  perished  through 
his  fault!  .  .  . 

The  salesman  also  seemed  to  be  suffering  a  twinge  of 


THE  YOUNG  TELEMACHUS  327 

conscience.  He  was  holding  himself  responsible  for  his 
companion's  death.  He  had  only  met  him  in  Naples  a 
few  days  before,  but  they  were  united  by  the  close 
brotherhood  of  young  compatriots  who  had  run  across 
each  other  far  from  their  country. 

They  had  both  been  born  in  Barcelona.  The  poor  lad, 
almost  a  child,  had  wanted  to  return  by  land  and  he  had 
carried  him  off  with  him  at  the  last  hour,  urging  upon  him 
the  advantages  of  a  trip  by  sea.  Whoever  would  have 
imagined  that  the  German  submarines  were  in  the 
Mediterranean!  The  traveling  man  persisted  in  his 
remorse.  He  could  not  forget  that  half-grown  lad  who, 
in  order  to  make  the  voyage  in  his  company,  had  gone 
to  meet  his  death. 

"I  met  him  in  Naples,  hunting  everywhere  for  his 
father." 

"Ah!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  uttered  this  exclamation  with  his  neck  vio- 
lently outstreched,  as  though  he  were  trying  to  loosen 
his  skull  from  the  rest  of  his  body.  His  eyes  were 
protruding  from  their  sockets. 

"The  father/'  continued  the  youth,  "commands  a 
ship.  .  .  .  He  is  Captain  Ulysses  Ferragut." 

An  outcry.  .  .  .  The  people  ran.  ...  A  man  had  just 
fallen  heavily,  his  body  rebounding  on  the  deck. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  ENCOUNTER  AT   MARSEILLES 

TONI,  who  abominated  railway  journeys  on  account  of 
his  torpid  immovability,  now  had  to  abandon  the  Mare 
Nostrum  and  suffer  the  torture  of  remaining  twelve 
hours  crowded  in  with  strange  persons. 

Ferragut  was  sick  in  a  hotel  in  the  harbor  of  Marseilles. 
They  had  taken  him  off  of  a  French  boat  coming  from 
Naples,  crushed  with  silent  melancholia.  He  wished  to 
die.  During  the  trip  they  had  to  keep  sharp  watch  so  that 
he  could  not  repeat  his  attempts  at  suicide.  Several  times 
he  had  tried  to  throw  himself  into  the  water. 

Toni  learned  of  it  from  the  captain  of  a  Spanish  vessel 
that  had  just  arrived  from  Marseilles  exactly  one  day 
after  the  newspapers  of  Barcelona  had  announced  the 
death  of  Esteban  Ferragut  in  the  torpedoing  of  the 
Calif ornian.  The  commercial  traveler  was  still  relating 
everywhere  his  version  of  the  event,  concluding  it  now 
with  his  melodramatic  meeting  with  the  father,  the 
latter's  fatal  fall  on  receiving  the  news,  and  desperation 
upon  recovering  consciousness. 

The  first  mate  had  hastened  to  present  himself  at  his 
captain's  home.  All  the  Blanes  were  there,  surrounding 
Cinta  and  trying  to  console  her. 

"My  son !  .  .  .  My  son !  .  .  ."  the  mother  was  groan- 
ing, writhing  on  the  sofa. 

And  the  family  chorus  drowned  her  laments,  over- 
whelming her  with  a  flood  of  fantastic  consolations  and 
recommendations  of  resignation.  She  ought  to  think  of 

328 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     329 

the  father:  she  was  not  alone  in  the  world  as  she  was 
affirming:  besides  her  own  family,  she  had  her  husband. 

Toni  entered  just  at  that  moment. 

"His  father!"  she)  cried  in  desperation.  "His 
father!  .  .  ." 

And  she  fastened  her  eyes  on  the  mate  as  though  trying 
to  speak  to  him  with  them.  Toni  knew  better  than  any- 
one what  that  father  was,  and  for  what  reason  he  had  re- 
mained in  Naples.  It  was  his  fault  that  the  boy  had 
undertaken  the  crazy  journey  at  whose  end  death  was 

awaiting  him The  devout  Cinta  looked  upon  this 

misfortune  as  a  chastisement  from  God,  always  compli- 
cated and  mysterious  in  His  designs.  Divinity,  in  order 
to  make  the  father  expiate  his  crimes,  had  killed  the  son 
without  thinking  of  the  mother  upon  whom  the  blow 
rebounded. 

Toni  went  away.  He  could  not  endure  the  glances  and 
the  allusions  made  by  Dona  Cinta.  And  as  though 
this  emotion  were  not  enough,  he  received  the  news  a 
few  hours  later  of  his  captain's  wretched  condition, — 
news  which  obliged  him  to  make  the  trip  to  Marseilles 
immediately. 

On  entering  the  quarters  of  the  hotel  frequented  by 
the  officials  of  merchant  vessels,  he  found  Ferragut 
seated  near  a  balcony  from  which  could  be  seen  the 
entire  harbor. 

He  was  limp  and  flabby,  with  eyes  sunken  and  faded, 
beard  unkempt,  and  a  manifest  disregard  of  his  personal 
appearance. 

"Toni!  .  .  .  Toni  I" 

He  embraced  his  mate,  moistening  his  neck  with  tears. 
For  the  first  time  he  began  to  weep  and  this  appeared  to 
give  him  a  certain  relief.  The  presence  of  his  faithful 
officer  brought  him  back  to  life.  Forgotten  memories  of 
business  journeys  crowded  in  his  mind.  Toni  resuscitated 


33o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

all    his    past    energies.     It    was    as    though    the    Mare 
Nostrum  had  come  in  search  of  him. 

He  felt  shame  and  remorse.  This  man  knew  his 
secret:  he  was  the  only  one  to  whom  he  had  spoken  of 
supplying  the  German  submarines. 

"My  poor  Esteban !  ...  My  son !" 

He  did  not  hesitate  to  admit  the  fatal  relationship 
between  the  death  of  his  son  and  that  illegal  trip  whose 
memory  was  weighing  him  down  like  a  monstrous  crime. 
But  Toni  was  discreet.  He  lamented  the  death  of 
Esteban  like  a  misfortune  in  which  the  father  had  not  had 
any  part. 

"I  also  have  lost  sons  .  .  .  And  I  know  that  nothing 
is  gained  by  giving  up  to  despair.  .  .  .  Cheer  up !" 

He  never  said  a  word  of  all  that  had  happened  before 
the  tragic  event.  Had  not  Ferragut  known  his  mate  so 
well,  he  might  have  believed  that  he  had  entirely  for- 
gotten it.  Not  the  slightest  gesture,  not  a  gleam  in  his 
eyes,  revealed  the  awakening  of  that  malign  recollection. 
His  only  anxiety  was  that  the  captain  should  soon  regain 
his  health.  .  .  . 

Reanimated  by  the  presence  and  words  of  this  prudent 
companion,  Ulysses  recovered  his  strength  and  a  few 
days  after,  abandoned  the  room  in  which  he  had  believed 
he  was  going  to  die,  turning  his  steps  toward  Barcelona. 

He  entered  his  home  with  a  foreboding  that  almost 
made  him  tremble.  The  sweet  Cinta,  considered  until 
then  with  the  protecting  superiority  of  the  Orientals  who 
do  not  recognize  a  soul  in  woman,  now  inspired  him  with 
a  certain  fear.  What  would  she  say  on  seeing  him  ?  .  .  . 

She  said  nothing  of  what  he  had  feared.  She  permitted 
herself  to  be  embraced,  and  drooping  her  head,  burst  into 
desperate  weeping,  as  though  the  presence  of  her  husband 
brought  into  higher  relief  the  image  of  her  son  whom 
.she  would  never  see  again.  Then  she  dried  her  tears, 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      331 

and  paler  and  sadder  than  ever,  continued  her  habitual 
life. 

Ferragut  saw  her  as  serene  as  a  school-mistress,  with 
her  two  little  nieces  seated  at  her  feet,  keeping  on  with 
her  eternal  lace-work.  She  forgot  it  only  in  order  to 
attend  to  the  care  of  her  husband,  occupying  herself 
with  the  very  slightest  details  of  his  existence.  That  was 
her  duty.  From  childhood,  she  had  known  what  are 
the  obligations  of  the  wife  of  the  captain  of  a  ship  when 
he  stops  at  home  for  a  few  days,  like  a  bird  of  passage. 
But  back  of  such  attentions,  Ulysses  divined  the  presence 
of  an  immovable  obstacle.  It  was  something  enormous 
and  transparent  that  had  interposed  itself  between  the 
two.  They  saw  each  other  but  without  being  able  to 
touch  each  other.  They  were  separated  by  a  distance,  as 
hard  and  luminous  as  a  diamond,  that  made  every 
attempt  at  drawing  nearer  together  useless. 

Cinta  never  smiled.  Her  eyes  were  dry,  trying  not  to 
weep  while  her  husband  was  near  her,  but  giving  herself 
up  freely  to  grief  when  she  was  alone.  Her  duty  was  to 
make  his  existence  bearable,  hiding  her  thoughts. 

But  this  prudence  of  a  good  house-mistress  was 
trampling  under  foot  their  conjugal  life  of  former  times. 
One  day  Ferragut, 'with  a  return  of  his  old  affection, 
and  desiring  to  illuminate  Chita's  twilight  existence  with 
a  pale  ray  of  sunlight,  ventured  to  caress  her  as  in 
the  early  days  of  their  marriage.  She  drew  herself 
up,  modest  and  offended,  as  though  she  had  just  received 
an  insult.  She  escaped  from  his  arms  with  the  energy 
of  one  who  is  repelling  an  outrage. 

Ulysses  looked  upon  a  new  woman,  intensely  pale,  of 
an  almost  olive  countenance,  the  nose  curved  with  wrath 
and  a  flash  of  madness  in  her  eyes.  All  that  she  was 
guarding  in  the  depths  of  her  thoughts  came  forth,  boil- 
ing over,  expelled  in  a  hoarse  voice  charged  with  tears. 


332  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"No,  no!  ...  We  shall  live  together,  because  you 
are  my  husband  and  God  commands  that  it  shall  be  so; 
but  I  no  longer  love  you:  I  cannot  love  you.  .  .  .  The 
wrong  that  you  have  done  me !  .  .  .  I  who  loved  you  so 
much!  .  .  .  However  much  you  may  hunt  in  your  voy- 
ages and  in  your  wicked  adventures,  you  will  never  find 
a  woman  that  loves  you  as  your  wife  has  loved  you/' 

Her  past  of  modest  and  submissive  affection,  of  su- 
pine and  tolerant  fidelity,  now  issued  from  her  mouth  in 
one  interminable  complaint. 

"From  our  home  my  thoughts  have  followed  you  in 
all  your  voyages,  although  I  knew  your  forget  fulness 
and  your  infidelity.  All  the  papers  found  in  your 
pockets,  and  photographs  lost  among  your  books,  the 
allusions  of  your  comrades,  your  smiles  of  pride,  the 
satisfied  air  with  which  you  many  times  returned,  the 
series  of  new  manners  and  additional  care  of  your 
person  that  you  did  not  have  when  you  left,  told  me  all. 
...  I  also  suspected  in  your  bold  caresses  the  hidden 
presence  of  other  women  who  lived  far  away  on  the 
other  side  of  the  world." 

She  stopped  her  turbulent  language  for  a  few 
moments,  letting  the  blush  which  her  memories  evoked 
fade  away. 

"I  loathed  it  all,"  she  continued.  "I  know  the  men  of 
the  sea ;  I  am  a  sailor's  daughter.  Many  times  I  saw  my 
mother  weeping  and  pitied  her  simplicity.  There  is  no 
use  weeping  for  what  men  do  in  distant  lands.  It  is 
always  bitter  enough  for  a  woman  who  loves  her  hus- 
band, but  it  has  no  bad  consequences  and  must  be  par- 
doned. .  .  .  But  now.  .  .  .  Now!  .  .  ." 

The  wife  became  irritated  on  recalling  his  recent 
infidelities.  .  .  .  Her  rivals  were  not  the  public  women 
of  the  great  ports,  nor  the  tourists  who  could  give  only  a 
few  days  of  love,  like  an  alms  which  they  tossed  without 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     333 

stopping  their  progress.  Now  he  had  become  enamored 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  a  husky  boy  with  an  elegant  and 
handsome  dame,  with  a  foreign  woman  who  had  made 
him  forget  his  business,  abandon  his  ship,  and  remain 
away,  as  though  renouncing  his  family  forever.  .  .  .  And 
poor  Esteban,  orphaned  by  his  father's  forgetfulness, 
had  gone  in  search  of  him,  with  the  adventurous  impetu- 
osity inherited  from  his  ancestors :  and  death,  a  horrible 
death,  had  come  to  meet  him  on  the  road. 

Something  more  than  the  grief  of  the  outraged  wife 
vibrated  in  Cinta's  laments.  It  was  the  rivalry  with  that 
woman  of  Naples,  whom  she  believed  a  great  lady  with 
all  the  attractions  of  wealth  and  high  birth.  She  envied 
her  superior  weapons  of  seduction ;  she  raged  at  her  own 
modesty  and  humility  as  a  home-keeping  woman. 

"I  was  resolved  to  ignore  it  all,"  she  continued.  "I 
had  one  consolation, — my  son.  What  did  it  matter  to 
me  what  you  did?  ...  You  were  far  off,  and  my  son 
was  living  at  my  side.  .  .  .  And  now  I  shall  never  see 
him  again !  .  .  .  My  fate  is  to  live  eternally  alone.  You 
know  very  well  that  I  shall  not  be  a  mother  again, — that 
I  cannot  give  you  another  son.  .  .  .  And  it  was  you,  you ! 
who  have  robbed  me  of  the  only  thing  that  I  had !  .  .  ." 

Her  imagination  invented  the  most  improbable  reasons 
for  explaining  to  herself  this  unjust  loss. 

"God  wished  to  punish  you  for  your  bad  life  and  has 
therefore  killed  Esteban,  and  is  slowly  killing  me.  .  .  . 
When  I  learned  of  his  death  I  wished  to  throw  myself 
off  the  balcony.  I  am  still  living  because  I  am  a 
Christian,  but  what  an  existence  awaits  me!  What  a 
life  for  you  if  you  are  really  a  father !  .  .  .  Think  that 
your  son  might  still  be  existing  if  you  had  not  remained 
in  Naples." 

Ferragut  was  a  pitiful  object.     He  hung  his  head  with- 


334  MARE  NOSTRUM 

out  strength  to  repeat  the  confused  and  lying  protests 
with  which  he  had  received  his  wife's  first  words. 

"If  she  knew  all  the  truth!"  the  voice  of  remorse 
kept  saying  in  his  brain. 

He  was  thinking  with  horror  of  what  Cinta  could  say 
if  she  knew  the  magnitude  of  his  sin.  Fortunately  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been  of  assistance 
to  the  assassins  of  their  son.  .  .  .  And  the  conviction 
that  she  never  would  know  it  made  him  admit  her  words 
with  silent  humility, — the  humility  of  the  criminal  who 
hears  himself  accused  of  an  offense  by  a  judge  ignorant 
of  a  still  greater  offense. 

Cinta  finished  speaking  in  a  discouraged  and  gloomy 
tone.  She  was  exhausted.  Her  wrath  faded  out,  con- 
sumed by  its  own  violence.  Her  sobs  cut  short  her 
words.  Her  husband  would  never  again  be  the  same 
man  to  her;  the  body  of  their  son  was  always  inter- 
posing between  the  two. 

"I  shall  never  be  able  to  love  you.  .  .  .  What  have  you 
done,  Ulysses  ?  What  have  you  done  that  I  should  have 
such  a  horror  of  you?  .  .  .  When  I  am  alone  I  weep: 
my  sadness  is  great,  but  I  admit  my  sorrow  with  resig- 
nation, as  a  thing  inevitable.  ...  As  soon  as  I 
hear  your  footsteps,  the  truth  springs  forth.  I  realize 
that  my  son  has  died  because  of  you,  that  he  would  still  be 
living  had  he  not  gone  in  search  of  you,  trying  to  make 
you  realize  that  you  were  a  father  and  what  you  owe  to 
us.  ...  And  when  I  think  of  that  I  hate  you,  I  hate  you! 
.  .  .  You  have  murdered  my  son!  My  only  consolation 
is  in  the  belief  that  if  you  have  any  conscience  you  will 
suffer  even  more  than  I." 

Ferragut  came  out  from  this  horrible  scene  with  the 
conviction  that  he  would  have  to  go  away.  That  home 
was  no  longer  his,  neither  was  his  wife  his.  The  re- 
minder of  death  filled  everything,  intervening  between 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      335. 

him  and  Cinta,  pushing  him  away,  forcing  him  again  on 
the  sea.  His  vessel  was  the  only  refuge  for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  and  he  must  resort  to  it  like  the  great  criminals 
of  other  centuries  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  isolation 
of  monasteries. 

He  needed  to  vent  his  wrath  on  somebody,  to  find 
some  responsible  person  whom  he  might  blame  for  his 
misfortunes.  Cinta  had  revealed  herself  to  him  as  an 
entirely  new  being.  He  would  never  have  suspected  such 
energy  of  character,  such  passionate  vehemence,  in  his 
sweet,  obedient,  little  wife.  She  must  have  some  coun- 
selor who  was  encouraging  her  complaints  and  making 
her  speak  badly  of  her  husband. 

And  he  fixed  upon  Don  Pedro,  the  professor,  because 
there  was  still  deep  within  him  a  certain  dislike  of  the 
man  since  the  days  of  his  courtship.  Besides,  it  offended 
him  to  see  him  in  his  home  with  a  certain  air  of  a  noble 
personage  whose  virtue  served  as  foil  for  the  sins  and 
shortcomings  of  the  master  of  the  house. 

The  professor  evidently  considered  Ferragut  on  a  level 
with  all  the  famous  Don  Juans, — liberal  and  care-free 
when  in  far-away  homes,  punctilious  and  suspiciously 
correct  in  his  own. 

"That  old  blatherskite!"  said  Ulysses  to'himself,  "is  in 
love  with  Cinta.  It  is  a  platonic  passion :  with  him,  it 
couldn't  be  anything  else.  But  it  annoys  me  greatly.  .  .  . 
I'm  going  to  say  a  few  things  to  him." 

Don  Pedro,  who  was  continuing  his  daily  visits  in  order 
to  console  the  mother,  speaking  of  poor  Esteban  as 
though  he  were  his  own  son,  and  casting  servile  smiles 
upon  the  captain,  found  himself  intercepted  by  him  one 
afternoon,  on  the  landing  of  the  stairway. 

The  sailor  aged  suddenly  while  talking,  and  his  features 
were  accented  with  a  vigorous  ugliness.  At  that  moment 
he  looked  exactly  like  his  uncle,  the  Triton.. 


336  MARE  NOSTRUM 

With  a  threatening  voice,  he  recalled  a  classic  passage 
well  known  to  the  professor.  His  namesake,  old  Ulysses, 
upon  returning  to  his  palace,  had  found  Penelope  sur- 
rounded with  suitors  and  had  ended  by  hanging  them  on 
tenterhooks. 

"Wasn't  that  the  way  of  it,  Professor?  ...  I  do  not 
find  here  more  than  one  suitor,  but  this  Ulysses  swears  to 
you  that  he  will  hang  him  in  the  same  way  if  he  finds  him 
again  in  his  home." 

Don  Pedro  fled.  He  had  always  found  the  rude 
heroes  of  the  Odyssey  very  interesting,  but  in  verse  and 
on  paper.  In  reality  they  now  seemed  to  him  most 
dangerous  brutes,  and  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Cinta  telling 
her  that  he  would  suspend  his  visits  until  her  husband 
should  have  returned  to  sea. 

This  insult  increased  the  wife's  distant  bearing.  She 
resented  it  as  an  offense  against  herself.  After  having 
made  her  lose  her  son,  Ulysses  was  terrifying  her  only 
friend. 

The  captain  felt  obliged  to  go.  By  staying  in  that  hos- 
tile atmosphere,  which  was  only  sharpening  his  remorse, 
he  would  pile  one  error  upon  another.  Nothing  but 
action  could  make  him  forget. 

One  day  he  announced  to  Toni  that  in  a  few  hours  he 
was  going  to  weigh  anchor.  He  had  offered  his  services 
to  the  allied  navies  in  order  to  carry  food  to  the  fleet  in 
the  Dardanelles.  The  Mare  Nostrum  would  transport 
eatables,  arms,  munitions,  aeroplanes. 

Toni  attempted  objection.  It  would  be  easy  to  find 
trips  equally  productive  and  much  less  dangerous;  they 
might  go  to  America.  .  .  . 

"And  my  revenge?"  interrupted  Ferragut.  "I  am 
going  to  dedicate  the  rest  of  my  life  to  doing  all  the  evil 
that  I  can  to  the  assassins  of  my  son.  The  Allies  need 
boats,  I'm  going  to  give  them  mine  and  my  person." 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     337 

Knowing  what  was  troubling  his  mate,  he  added, 

"Besides,  they  pay  well.  These  trips  are  very 
remunerative.  .  .  .  They  will  give  me  whatever  I  ask/' 

For  the  first  time  in  his  existence  on  board  the  Mare 
Nostrum,  the  mate  made  a  scornful  gesture  regarding  the 
value  of  the  cargo. 

"I  almost  forgot,"  continued  Ulysses,  smiling  in  spite 
of  his  sadness.  "This  trip  flatters  your  ideals.  .  .  .  We 
are  going  to  work  for  the  Republic." 

They  went  to  England  and,  taking  on  their  cargo,  set 
forth  for  the  Dardanelles.  Ferragut  wished  to  sail  alone 
without  the  protection  of  the  destroyers  that  were  es- 
corting the  convoys. 

He  knew  the  Mediterranean  well.  Besides,  he  was 
from  a  neutral  country  and  the  Spanish  flag  was  flying 
from  the  poop  of  his  vessel.  This  abuse  of  his  flag  did 
not  produce  the  slightest  remorse,  nor  did  it  appear  as 
disloyal  to  him.  The  German  corsairs  were  coming 
closer  to  their  prey,  displaying  neutral  flags,  in  order  to 
deceive.  The  submarines  were  remaining  hidden  behind 
pacific  sailing  ships  in  order  to  rise  up  suddenly  near 
defenseless  vessels.  The  most  felonious  proceedings  of 
the  ancient  pirates  had  been  resuscitated  by  the  German 
fleet. 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  submarines.  He  trusted  in 
the  speed  of  the  Mare  Nostrum  and  in  his  lucky  star. 

"And  if  any  of  them  should  cross  our  path,"  he  said 
to  his  second,  "just  let  them  go  before  the  prow !" 

He  wished  this  so  that  he  could  send  his  vessel  upon 
the  submersible  at  full  speed,  daring  it  to  come  on. 

The  Mediterranean  was  no  longer  the  same  sea  that  it 
had  been  months  before  when  the  captains  knew  all  its 
secrets ;  he  could  no  longer  live  on  it  as  confidently  as  in 
the  house  of  a  friend. 

He  stayed  in  his  stateroom  only  to  sleep.     He  and  Toni 


338  MARE  NOSTRUM 

spent  long  hours  on  the  bridge  talking  without  seeing 
each  other,  with  their  eyes  turned  on  the  sea,  scanning 
the  heaving  blue  surface.  'All  the  crew,  excepting  those 
that  were  resting,  felt  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  same 
watch. 

In  the  daytime  the  slightest  discovery  would  send  the 
alarm  from  prow  to  poop.  All  the  refuse  of  the  sea,  that 
weeks  before  had  splashed  unnoticed  near  the  sides 
of  the  vessel,  now  provoked  cries  of  attention,  and  many 
arms  were  outstretched,  pointing  it  out.  Bits  of  sticks, 
empty  preserve  cans  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  bunches 
of  seaweed,  a  sea  gull  with  outspread  wings  letting 
itself  rock  on  the  waves;  everything  made  them  think  of 
the  periscopes  of  the  submarine  coming  up  to  the  water's 
level. 

At  night  time  the  vigilance  was  even  greater.  To  the 
danger  of  submersibles  must  also  be  added  that 
of  collision.  The  warships  and  the  allied  transports 
were  traveling  with  few  lights  or  completely  dark.  The 
sentinels  on  the  bridge  were  no  longer  scanning  the 
surface  of  the  sea  with  its  pale  phosphorescence.  Their 
gaze  explored  the  horizon,  fearing  that  before  the  prow 
there  might  suddenly  surge  up  an  enormous,  swift,  black 
form,  vomited  forth  by  the  darkness. 

If  at  any  time  the  captain  tarried  in  his  stateroom, 
instantly  that  fatal  memory  came  to  his  mind. 

"Esteban!  ...  My  son!  ..  ." 

And  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

Remorse  and  wrath  made  him  plan  tremendous  ven- 
geance. He  was  convinced  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  carry  it  through,  but  it  was  a  momentary  consolation 
to  his  meridional  character  predisposed  to  the  most  bloody 
revenge. 

One  day,  running  over  some  forgotten  papers  in  a 
suit-case,  he  came  across  Freya's  portrait.  Upon  seeing 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     339 

her  audacious  smile  and  her  calm  eyes  fixed  upon  him, 
he  felt  within  him  a  shameful  reversion.  He  admired 
the  beauty  of  this  apparition,  a  thrill  passing  over  his 
body  as  their  past  intercourse  recurred  to  him.  .  .  .  And 
at  the  same  time  that  other  Ferragut  existing  within  him 
thrilled  with  the  murderous  violence  of  the  Oriental  who 
considers  death  as  the  only  means  of  vengeance.  She 
was  to  blame  for  it  all.  "Ah!  .  .  .  Tal!" 

He  tore  up  the  photograph,  but  then  he  put  the  frag- 
ments together  again  and  finally  placed  them  among  his 
papers. 

His  wrath  was  changing  its  objective.  Freya  really 
was  not  the  principal  person  guilty  of  Esteban's  death. 
He  was  thinking  of  that  other  one,  of  the  pretended 
diplomat,  of  that  von  Kramer  who  perhaps  had  directed 
the  torpedo  which  had  blown  his  son  to  atoms.  .  .  . 
Would  he  not  raise  the  devil  if  he  could  meet  him  some- 
time? .  .  .  What  happiness  if  these  two  should  find 
themselves  face  to  face! 

Finally  he  avoided  the  solitude  of  a  stateroom  that 
tormented  him  with  desires  of  impotent  revenge.  Near 
Toni  on  deck  or  on  the  bridge  he  felt  better.  .  .  . 
And  with  a  humble  condescension,  such  as  his  mate 
had  never  known  before,  he  would  talk  and  talk,  enjoying 
the  attention  of  his  simple-hearted  listener,  just  as  though 
he  were  telling  marvelous  stories  to  a  circle  of  children. 

In  the  Strait  of  Gibraltar  he  explained  to  him  the  great 
currents  sent  by  the  ocean  into  the  Mediterranean,  at 
certain  times  aiding  the  screw-propeller  in  the  propulsion 
of  the  vessel. 

Without  this  Atlantic  current  the  mare  nostrum,  which 
lost  through  atmospheric  evaporation  much  more  water 
than  the  rains  and  rivers  could  bring  to  it,  would  become 
dry  in  a  few  centuries.  It  had  been  calculated  that  it 
might  disappear  in  about  four  hundred  and  seventy  years, 


340  MARE  NOSTRUM 

leaving  as  evidence  of  its  former  existence  a  stratum 
of  salt  fifty-two  meters  thick. 

In  its  deep  bosom  were  born  great  and  numerous 
springs  of  fresh  water,  on  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor,  in 
Morea,  Dalmatia  and  southern  Italy ;  it  received  besides  a 
considerable  contribution  from  the  Black  Sea,  which  on 
returning  to  the  Mediterranean  accumulated  from  the 
rains  and  the  discharge  of  its  rivers,  more  water  than  it 
lost  by  evaporation,  sending  it  across  the  Bosporous 
and  the  Dardenelles  in  the  form  of  a  superficial  current. 
But  all  these  tributaries,  enormous  as  they  were*  sank 
into  insignificance  when  compared  with  the  renovation  of 
the  oceanic  currents. 

The  waters  of  the  Atlantic  poured  into  the  Mediterra- 
nean so  riotously  that  neither  contrary  winds  nor  reflex 
motion  could  stop  them.  Sailboats  sometimes  had  to 
wait  entire  months  for  a  strong  breeze  that  would  enable 
them  to  conquer  the  impetuous  mouth  of  the  strait. 

"I  know  that  very  well,"  said  Toni.  "Once  going  to 
Cuba  we  were  in  sight  of  Gibraltar  more  than  fifty  days, 
going  backwards  and  forwards  until  a  favorable  wind 
enabled  us  to  overcome  the  current  and  go  out  into  the 
great  sea." 

"Just  such  a  current/'  added  Ferragut,  "was  one  of  the 
causes  that  hastened  the  decadence  of  the  Mediterranean 
navies  in  the  sixteenth  century.  They  had  to  go  to  the 
recently  discovered  Indies,  and  the  Catalan  or  the 
Genoese  ships  would  remain  here  in  the  strait  weeks  and 
weeks,  struggling  with  the  wind  and  the  contrary  current 
while  the  Galicians,  the  Basques,  the  French  and  the 
English  who  had  left  their  ports  at  the  same  time  were 
already  nearing  America.  .  .  .  Fortunately,  navigation  by 
steam  has  now  equalized  all  that." 

Toni  was  silently  admiring  his  captain.  What  he  must 
have  learned  in  those  books  that  filled  the  stateroom !  . 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      341 

It  was  in  the  Mediterranean  that  men  had  first  en- 
trusted themselves  to  the  waves.  Civilization  emanated 
from  India,  but  the  Asiatic  peoples  were  not  able  to 
master  the  art  of  navigation  in  their  few  seas  whose 
coasts  were  very  far  apart  and  where  the  monsoons  of 
the  Indian  Ocean  blew  six  months  together  in  one  direc- 
tion and  six  months  in  another. 

Not  until  he  reached  the  Mediterranean  by  overland 
emigration  did  the  white  man  wish  to  become  a  sailor. 
This  sea  that,  compared  with  others,  is  a  simple  lake 
sown  with  archipelagoes,  offered  a  good  school.  To 
whatever  wind  he  might  set  his  sails,  he  would  be  sure 
to  reach  some  hospitable  shore.  The  fresh  and  irregular 
breezes  revolved  with  the  sun  at  certain  times  of  the 
year.  The  hurricane  whirled  across  its  bowl,  but  never 
stopped.  There  were  no  tides.  Its  harbors  and  water- 
ways were  never  dry.  Its  coasts  and  islands  were  often 
so  close  together  that  you  could  see  from  one  to  the  other; 
its  lands,  beloved  of  heaven,  were  recipients  of  the  sun's 
sweetest  smiles. 

Ferragut  recalled  the  men  who  had  plowed  this  sea 
in  centuries  so  remote  that  history  makes  no  mention  of 
them.  The  only  traces  of  their  existence  now  extant 
were  the  nuraghs  of  Sardinia  and  the  talayots  of  the 
Balearic  Islands, — gigantic  tables  formed  with  blocks, 
barbaric  altars  of  enormous  rocks  which  recalled  the 
Celtic  obelisks  and  sepulchral  monuments  of  the  Breton 
coast.  These  obscure  people  had  passed  from  isle  to 
isle,  from  the  extreme  of  the  Mediterranean  to  the  strait 
which  is  its  door. 

The  captain  could  imagine  their  rude  craft  made  from 
trunks  of  trees  roughly  planed,  propelled  by  one  oar,  or 
rather  by  the  stroke  of  a  stick,  with  no  other  aid  than 
a  single  rudimentary  sail  spread  to  the  fresh  breeze. 
The  navy  of  the  first  Europeans  had  been  like  that 


342  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  the  savages  of  the  oceanic  islands  whose  flotillas 
of  tree  trunks  are  still  actually  going  from  archipelago 
to  archipelago. 

Thus  they  had  dared  to  sally  forth  from  the  coast, 
to  lose  sight  of  land,  to  venture  forth  into  the  blue 
desert,  advised  of  the  existence  of  islands  by  the  vaporous 
knobs  of  the  mountains  which  were  outlined  on  the  hori- 
zon at  sunset.  Every  advance  of  this  hesitating  marine 
over  the  Mediterranean  had  represented  greater  expendi- 
ture of  audacity  and  energy  than  the  discovery  of  Amer- 
ica or  the  first  voyage  around  the  world.  .  .  .  These 
primitive  sailors  did  not  go  forth  alone  to  their  adven- 
tures on  the  sea;  they  were  nations  en  masse,  they  car- 
ried with  them  families  and  animals.  Once  installed  on 
an  island,  the  tribes  sent  forth  fragments  of  their  own 
life,  going  to  colonize  other  nearby  lands  across  the 
waves. 

Ulysses  and  his  mate  thought  much  about  the  great 
catastrophes  ignored  by  history — the  tempest  surprising 
the  sailing  exodus,  entire  fleets  of  rough  rafts  swal- 
lowed up  by  the  abyss  in  a  few  moments,  families  dying 
clinging  to  their  domestic  animals, — whenever  they  at- 
tempted a  new  advance  of  their  rudimentary  civiliza- 
tion. 

In  order  to  form  some  idea  of  what  these  little  em- 
barkations were,  Ferragut  would  recall  the  fleets  of 
Homeric  form,  created  many  centuries  afterwards.  The 
winds  used  to  impose  a  religious  terror  on  those  war- 
riors of  the  sea,  reunited  in  order  to  fall  upon  Troy. 
Their  ships  remained  chained  an  entire  year  in  the  har- 
bor of  Aulis  and,  through  fear  of  the  hostility  of  the 
wind  and  in  order  to  placate  the  divinity  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, they  sacrificed  the  life  of  a  virgin. 

All  was  danger  and  mystery  in  the  kingdom  of  the 
waves.  The  abysses  roared,  the  rocks  moaned;  on  the 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      343 

ledges  were  singing  sirens  who,  with  their  music,  at- 
tracted ships  in  order  to  dash  them  to  pieces.  There 
was  not  an  island  without  its  particular  god,  without  its 
monster  and  cyclops,  or  its  magician  contriving  artifices. 

Before  domesticating  the  elements,  mankind  had  at- 
tributed to  them  their  most  superstitious  fears. 

A  material  factor  had  powerfully  influenced  the  dan- 
gers of  Mediterranean  life.  The  sand,  moved  by  the 
caprice  of  the  current,  was  constantly  ruining  the  vil- 
lages or  raising  them  to  peaks  of  unexpected  pros- 
perity. Cities  celebrated  in  history  were  'to-day  no 
more  than  streets  of  ruins  at  the  foot  of  a  hillock 
crowned  with  the  remains  of  a  Phoenician,  Roman,  By- 
zantine or  Saracen  castle,  or  with  a  fortress  contempo- 
rary with  the  Crusades.  In  other  centuries  these  had 
been  famous  ports;  before  their  walls  had  taken  place 
naval  battles ;  now  from  their  ruined  acropolis  one  could 
scarcely  see  the  Mediterranean  except  as  a  light  blue 
belt  at  the  end  of  a  low  and  marshy  plain.  The  accu- 
mulating sand  had  driven  the  sea  back  miles.  .  .  .  On 
the  other  hand,  inland  cities  had  come  to  be  places  of 
embarkation  because  of  the  continual  perforation  of  the 
waves  that  were  forcing  their  way  in. 

The  wickedness  of  mankind  had  imitated  the  de- 
structive work  of  nature.  When  a  maritime  republic 
conquered  a  rival  republic,  the  first  thing  that  it  thought 
of  was  to  obstruct  its  harbor  with  sand  and  stones  in 
order  to  divert  the  course  of  its  waters  so  as  to  convert 
it  into  an  inland  city,  thereby  ruining  its  fleets  and  its 
traffic.  The  Genoese,  triumphant  over  Pisa,  stopped 
up  its  harbor  with  the  sands  of  the  Arno;  and  the 
city  of  the  first  conquerors  of  Mallorca,  of  the  navigators 
to  the  Holy  Land,  of  the  Knights  of  St.  Stephen,  guard- 
ians of  the  Mediterranean,  came  to  be  Pisa  the  Dead,- 
settlement  that  knew  the  sea  only  by  hearsay. 


344  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Sand,"  continued  Ferragut,  "has  changed  the  com- 
mercial routes  and  historic   destinies  of  the   Mediter- 


ranean." 


Of  the  many  deeds  which  had  stretched  along  the 
scenes  of  the  mare  nostrum,  the  most  famous  in  the 
captain's  opinion  was  the  unheard-of  epic  of  Roger  de 
Flor  which  he  had  known  from  childhood  through  the 
stories  told  him  .by  the  poet  Labarta,  by  the  Triton,  and 
by  that  poor  secretary  who  was  always  dreaming  of  the 
great  past  of  the  Catalan  marine. 

All  the  world  was  now  talking  about  the  blockade 
of  the  Dardanelles.  The  boats  that  furrowed  the 
Mediterranean,  merchant  vessels  as  well  as  battleships, 
were  furthering  the  great  military  operation  that  was 
developing  opposite  Gallipoli.  The  name  of  the  long, 
narrow  maritime  pass  which  separates  Europe  and 
Asia  was  in  every  mouth.  To-day  the  eyes  of  mankind 
were  converged  on  this  point  just  as,  in  remote  centuries, 
they  had  been  fixed  on  the  war  of  Troy. 

"We  also  have  been  there,"  said  Ferragut  with  pride. 
"The  Dardanelles  have  been  frequented  for  many  years 
by  the  Catalans  and  the  Aragonese.  Gallipoli  was  one  of 
our  cities  governed  by  the  Valencian,  Ramon  Muntaner." 

And  he  began  the  story  of  the  Almogavars  in  the 
Orient,  that  romantic  Odyssey  across  the  ancient  Asiatic 
provinces  of  the  Roman  Empire  that  ended  only  with 
the  founding  of  the  Spanish  duchy  of  Athens  and  Neo- 
patria  in  the  city  of  Pericles  and  Minerva.  The  chron- 
icles of  the  Oriental  Middle  Ages,  the  books  of  Byzan- 
tine chivalry,  the  fantastic  tales  of  the  Arab  do  not  con- 
tain more  improbable  and  dramatic  adventures  than  the 
warlike  enterprises  of  these  Argonauts  coming  from  the 
valleys  of  the  Pyrenees,  from  the  banks  of  the  Ebro,  and 
from  the  Moorish  gardens  of  Valencia. 

"Eighty  years,"  said  Ferragut,  terminating  his  account 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     345 

of  the  glorious  adventures  of  Roger  de  Flor  around  Gal- 
lipoli,  "the  Spanish  duchy  of  Athens  and  Neopatria 
flourished.  Eighty  years  the  Catalans  governed  these 
lands." 

And  he  pointed  out  on  the  horizon  the  place  where 
the  red  haze  of  distant  promontories  and  mountains  out- 
lined the  Grecian  land. 

Such  a  duchy  was  in  reality  a  republic.  Athens  and 
Thebes  were  administered  in  accordance  with  the  laws 
of  Aragon  and  its  code  was  "The  book  of  Usages  and 
Customs  of  the  City  of  Barcelona."  The  Catalan  tongue 
ruled  as  the  official  language  in  the  country  of  Demos- 
thenes, and  the  rude  Almogavars  married  with  the  highest 
ladies  of  the  country. 

The  Parthenon  was  still  intact  as  in  the  glorious  times 
of  ancient  Athens.  The  august  monument  of  Minerva 
converted  into  a  Christian  church,  had  not  undergone 
any  other  modification  than  that  of  seeing  a  new  god- 
dess on  its  altars,  La  Virgen  Santisima. 

And  in  this  thousand-year-old  temple  of  sovereign 
beauty  the  Te  Deum  was  sung  for  eighty  years  in  honor 
of  the  Aragonese  dukes,  and  the  clergy  preached  in  the 
Catalan  tongue. 

The  republic  of  adventurers  did  not  bother  with  con- 
structing nor  creating.  There  does  not  remain  On  the 
Grecian  land  any  trace  of  their  dominion, — edifices, 
seals,  nor  coins.  Only  a  few  noble  families,  especially 
in  the  islands,  took  the  Catalan  patronym. 

"Although  they  yet  remember  us  confusedly,  they  do 
remember  us,"  said  Ferragut.  "  'May  the  vengeance  of 
the  Catalans  overtake  you'  was  for  many  centuries  the 
worst  of  curses  in  Greece." 

Thus  terminated  the  most  glorious  and  bloody  of  the 
Mediterranean  adventures  of  the  Middle  Ages, — the 
clash  of  western  crudeness,  almost  savage  but  frank  and 


346  MARE  NOSTRUM 

noble,  against  the  refined  malice  and  decadent  civiliza- 
tion of  the  Greeks, — childish  and  old  at  the  same  time, — 
which  survived  in  Byzantium. 

Ferragut  felt  a  pleasure  in  these  relations  of  im- 
perial splendor,  palaces  of  gold,  epic  encounters  and 
furious  frays,  while  his  ship  was  navigating  through  the 
black  night  and  bounding  over  the  dark  sea  accompanied 
by  the  throbbing  of  machinery  and  the  noisy  thrum  of 
the  screw,  at  times  out  of  the  water  during  the  furious 
rocking  from  prow  to  poop. 

They  were  in  the  worst  place  in  the  Mediterranean 
where  the  winds  coming  from  the  narrow  passage  of  the 
Adriatic,  from  the  steppes  of  Asia  Minor,  from  the 
African  deserts  and  from  the  gap  of  Gibraltar  tempestu- 
ously mingled  their  atmospheric  currents.  The  waters 
boxed  in  .among  the  numerous  islands  of  the  Grecian 
archipelago  were  writhing  in  opposite  directions,  enraged 
and  clashing  against  the  ledges  on  the  coast  with  a  retro- 
grading violence  that  converted  them  into  a  furious 
surge. 

The  captain,  hooded  like  a  friar  and  bowed  before 
the  wind  that  was  striving  to  snatch  him  from  the  bridge, 
kept  talking  and  talking  to  his  mate,  standing  immovable 
near  him  and  also  covered  with  a  waterproof  coat  that 
was  spouting  moisture  from  every  fold.  The  rain  was 
streaking  with  light,  cobwebby  lines  the  slaty  darkness, 
of  the  night.  The  two  sailors  felt  as  though  icy  nettles 
were  falling  upon  face  and  hands  across  the  darkness. 

Twice  they  anchored  near  the  island  of  Tenedos,  see- 
ing the  movable  archipelago  of  ironclads  enveloped 
in  floating  veils  of  smoke.  There  came  to  their  ears,  like 
incessant  thunderings,  the  echo  of  the  cannons  that  were 
roaring  at  the  entrance  of  the  Dardanelles. 

From  afar  off  they  perceived  the  sensation  caused  by 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     347 

the  loss  of  some  English  and  French  ships.  The  cur- 
rent of  the  Black  Sea  was  the  best  armor  for  the  de- 
fenders of  this  aquatic  defile  against  the  attacks  of  the 
fleets.  They  had  only  to  throw  into  the  strait  a  quantity 
of  floating  mines  and  the  blue  river  which  slipped  by 
the  Dardanelles  would  drag  these  toward  the  boats,  de- 
stroying them  with  an  infernal  explosion.  On  the  coast 
of  Tenedos  the  Hellenic  women  with  their  floating  hair 
were  tossing  flowers  into  the  sea  in  memory  of  the  vic- 
tims, with  a  theatrical  grief  similar  to  that  of  the  heroines 
of  ancient  Troy  whose  ramparts  were  buried  in  the  hills 
opposite. 

The  third  trip  in  mid-winter  was  a  very  hard  one,  and 
at  the  end  of  a  rainy  night,  when  the  faint  streaks  of 
dawn  were  beginning  to  dissipate  the  sluggish  shadows, 
the  Mare  Nostrum  arrived  at  the  roadstead  of  Salonica. 

Only  once  had  Ferragut  been  in  this  port,  many  years 
before,  when  it  still  belonged  to  the  Turks.  At  first  he 
saw  only  some  lowlands  on  which  twinkled  the  last  gleams 
from  the  lighthouses.  Then  he  recognized  the  roadstead, 
a  vast  aquatic  extension  with  a  frame  of  sandy  bars 
and  pools  reflecting  the  uncertain  life  of  daybreak. 
The  recently  awakened  sea-gulls  were  flying  in  groups 
over  the  immense  marine  bowl.  At  the  mouth  of  the 
Vardar  the  fresh-water  fowls  were  starting  up  with 
noisy  cries,  or  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  bank  immov- 
able upon  their  long  legs. 

Opposite  the  prow,  a  city  was  rising  up  out  of  the  al- 
buminous waves  of  fog.  In  a  bit  of  the  clear,  blue  sky 
appeared  various  minarets,  their  peaks  sparkling  with 
the  fires  of  Aurora.  As  the  vessel  advanced,  the  morn- 
ing clouds  vanished,  and  Salonica  became  entirely  visible 
from  the  cluster  of  huts  at  her  wharves  to  the  ancient 
castle  topping  the  heights,  a  fortress  of  ruddy  towers, 
low  and  strong. 


348  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Near  the  water's  edge,  the  entire  length  of  the  har- 
bor, were  the  European  constructions,  commercial  houses 
with  gold-lettered  signs,  hotels,  banks,  moving-picture 
shows,  concert  halls,  and  a  massive  tower  with  another 
smaller  one  upon  it,— the  so-called  White  Tower,  a 
remnant  of  the  Byzantine  fortifications. 

In  this  European  conglomerate  were  dark  gaps,  open 
passageways,  the  mouths  of  sloping  streets  climbing  to 
the  hillock  above,  crossing  the  Grecian,  Mohammedan 
and  Jewish  quarters  until  they  reached  a  table-land  cov- 
ered with  lofty  edifices  between  dark  points  of  cypress. 

The  religious  diversity  of  the  Oriental  Mediterranean 
made  Salonica  bristle  with  cupolas  and  towers.  The 
Greek  temple  threw  into  prominence  the  gilded  bulbs 
of  its  roof;  the  Catholic  church  made  the  cross  glisten 
from  the  peak  of  its  bell-tower;  the  synagogue  of  geo- 
metrical forms  overflowed  in  a  succession  of  terraces; 
the  Mohammedan  minaret  formed  a  colonnade,  white, 
sharp  and  slender.  Modern  life  had  added  factory  chim- 
neys and  the  arms  of  steam-cranes  which  gave  an  an- 
achronistic effect  to  this  decoration  of  an  Oriental  har- 
bor. Around  the  city  and  its  acropolis  was  the  plain 
which  lost  itself  in  the  horizon, — a  plain  that  Ferragut, 
on  a  former  voyage,  had  seen  desolate  and  monotonous, 
with  few  houses  and  sparsely  cultivated,  with  no  other 
vegetation  except  that  in  the  little  oases  of  the  Moham- 
medan cemetery.  This  desert  extended  to  Greece  and 
Servia  or  to  the  borders  of  Bulgaria  and  Turkey. 

Now  the  brownish-gray  steppes  coming  out  from  the 
fleecy  fog  of  daybreak  were  palpitating  with  new  life. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  men  were  encamped  around 
the  city,  occupying  new  villages  made  of  canvas,  rec- 
tangular streets  of  tents,  cities  of  wooden  cabins,  and  con- 
structions as  big  as  churches  whose  canvas  walls  were 
trembling  under  the  violent  squalls  of  wind. 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      349 

Through  his  glasses,  Ulysses  could  see  warlike  hosts 
occupied  with  the  business  of  caring  for  strings  of 
riderless  horses  that  were  going  to  watering  places,  parks 
of  artillery  with  their  cannon  upraised  like  the  tubes  of 
a  telescope,  enormous  birds  with  yellow  wings  that  were 
trying  to  skip  along  the  earth's  surface  with  a  noisy 
bumping,  gradually  reappearing  in  space  with  their 
waxy  wings  glistening  in  the  first  shafts  of  sunlight. 

All  the  allied  army  of  the  Orient  returning  from  the 
bloody  and  mistaken  adventure  of  the  Dardanelles  or  pro- 
ceeding from  Marseilles  and  Gibraltar  were  massing 
themselves  around  Salonica. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  anchored  at  the  wharves  filled 
with  boxes  and  bales.  War  had  given  a  much  greater 
activity  to  this  port  than  in  times  of  peace.  Steamers 
of  all  the  allied  and  neutral  flags  were  unloading  eatables 
and  military  materials. 

They  were  coming  from  every  continent,  from  every 
ocean,  drawn  thither  by  the  tremendous  necessities  of 
a  modern  army.  They  were  unloading  harvests  from 
entire  provinces,  unending  herds  of  oxen  and  horses, 
tons  upon  tons  of  steel,  prepared  for  deadly  work,  and 
human  crowds  lacking  only  a  tail  of  women  and  chil- 
dren to  be  like  the  great  martial  exoduses  of  history. 
Then  taking  on  board  the  residuum  of  war,  arms  needing 
repair,  wounded  men,  they  would  begin  their  return 
trip. 

These  cargoes  quietly  transported  through  the  dark- 
ness in  spite  of  bad  times  and  the  submarine  threats, 
were  preparing  the  ultimate  victory.  Many  of  these 
steamers  were  formerly  luxurious  vessels,  but  no\v 
commandeered  by  military  necessity,  were  dirty  and 
greasy  and  used  as  cargo  boats.  Lined  up,  drowsing 
along  the  docks,  ready  to  begin  their  work,  were  new  hos- 
pital ships,  the  more  fortunate  transatlantic  liners  that 


350  MARE  NOSTRUM 

still  retained  a  certain  trace  of  their  former  condition, 
quite  clean  with  a  red  cross  painted  on  their  sides  and  an- 
other on  their  smokestacks. 

Some  of  the  transports  had  reached  Salonica  most 
miraculously.  Their  crews  would  relate  with  the  fatal- 
istic serenity  of  men  of  the  sea  how  the  torpedo  had 
passed  at  a  short  distance  from  their  hulls.  A  dam- 
aged steamer  lay  on  its  side,  with  only  the  keel  sub- 
merged, all  its  red  exterior  exposed  to  the  air;  on  its 
water-line  there  had  opened  a  breach,  angular  in  outline. 
Upon  looking  from  the  deck  into  the  depths  of  its  hold 
filled  with  water,  there  might  be  seen  a  great  gash  in  its 
side  like  the  mouth  of  a  luminous  cavern. 

Ferragut,  while  his  boat  was  discharging  its  cargo 
under  Toni's  supervision,  passed  his  days  ashore,  visiting 
the  city. 

From  the  very  first  moment  he  was  attracted  by  the 
narrow  lanes  of  the  Turkish  quarters — their  white 
houses  with  protruding  balconies  covered  with  latticed 
blinds  like  cages  painted  red;  the  little  mosques  with 
their  patios  of  cypresses  and  fountains  of  melancholy 
tinkling;  the  tombs  of  Mohammedan  dervishes  iu  kiosks 
which  block  the  streets  under  the  pale  reflection  of  a 
lamp;  the  women  veiled  with  their  black  firadjes;  and 
the  old  men  who,  silent  and  thoughtful  under  their 
scarlet  caps,  pass  along  swaying  to  the  staggering  of  the 
ass  on  which  they  are  mounted. 

The  great  Roman  way  between  Rome  and  Byzantium, 
the  ancient  road  of  the  blue  flagstones,  passed  through  a 
street  of  modern  Salonica.  Still  a  part  of  its  pavement 
remained  and  appeared  gloriously  obstructed  by  an  arch 
of  triumph  near  whose  weatherbeaten  stone  base  were 
working  barefooted  bootblacks  wearing  the  scarlet  fez. 

An   endless    variety   of   uniforms    filed   through   the 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      351 

streets,  and  this  diversity  in  attire  as  well  as  the  ethnical 
difference  in  the  men  who  wore  it  was  very  noticeable. 
The  soldiers  of  France  and  the  British  Isles  touched  el- 
bows with  the  foreign  troops.  The  allied  governments 
had  sent  out  a  call  to  the  professional  combatants  and 
volunteers  of  their  colonies.  The  black  sharpshooters 
from  the  center  of  Africa  showed  their  smiling  teeth  of 
marble  to  the  bronze  giants  with  huge  white  turbans 
who  had  come  from  India.  The  hunters  from  the  glacial 
plains  of  Canada  were  fraternizing  with  the  volunteers 
from  Australia  and  New  Zealand. 

The  cataclysm  of  the  world  war  had  dragged  man- 
kind from  the  antipodes  to  this  drowsy  little  corner  of 
Greece  where  were  again  repeated  the  invasions  of  re- 
mote centuries  which  had  made  ancient  Thessalonica 
bow  to  the  conquest  of  Bulgarians,  Byzantians,  Saracens, 
and  Turks. 

The  crews  of  the  battleships  in  the  roadstead  had  just 
added  to  this  medley  of  uniforms  the  monotonous 
note  of  their  midnight  blue,  almost  like  that  of  all  the 
navies  of  the  world.  .  .  .  And  to  the  military  amalga- 
mation was  also  added  the  picturesque  variety  of  civil 
dress, — the  hybrid  character  of  the  neighborhood  of 
Salonica,  composed  of  various  races  and  religions  that 
were  mingled  together  without  confusing  their  individu- 
ality. Files  of  black  tunics  and  hats  with  brimless 
crowns  passed  through  the  streets,  near  the  Catholic 
priests  or  the  rabbis  with  their  long,  loose  gowns.  In 
the  outskirts  might  be  seen  men  almost  naked,  with  no 
other  clothing  than  a  sheep-skin  tunic,  guiding  flocks  of 
pigs,  just  like  the  shepherds  in  the  Odyssey.  Dervishes, 
with  their  aspect  of  dementia,  chanted  motionless  in  a 
crossway,  enveloped  in  clouds  of  flies,  awaiting  the  aid 
of  the  good  believers. 

A  great  part  of  the  population  was  composed  of  Is- 


352  MARE  NOSTRUM 

raelitish  descendants  of  the  Jews  expelled  from  Spain 
and  Portugal.  The  oldest  and  most  conservative  were 
clad  just  like  their  remote  ancestors  with  large  kaftans 
striped  with  striking  colors.  The  women,  when  not  imi- 
tating the  European  fashions,  usually  wore  a  picturesque 
garment  that  recalled  the  Spanish  apparel  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  Here  they  were  not  mere  brokers  or  traders  as 
in  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  necessities  of  the  city 
dominated  by  them  had  made  them  pick  up  all  the  pro- 
fessions, becoming  artisans,  fishermen,  boatmen,  porters 
and  stevedores  of  the  harbor.  They  still  kept  the  Castilian 
tongue  as  the  language  of  the  hearth  like  an  original 
flag  whose  waving  reunited  their  scattered  souls, — a 
Castilian  in  the  making,  soft  and  without  consistency 
like  one  newly-born. 

"Are  you  a  Spaniard?"  they  said  brokenly  to  Captain 
Ferragut.  "My  ancestors  were  born  there.  It  is  a  beau- 
tiful land." 

But  they  did  not  wish  to  return  to  it.  The  country 
of  their  grandsires  inspired  a  certain  amount  of  terror 
in  them,  and  they  feared  that  upon  seeing  them  return, 
the  present-day  Spaniards  would  banish  the  bullfights 
and  reestablish  the  Inquisition,  organizing  an  auto  de  fe 
every  Sunday. 

Hearing  them  speak  his  language,  the  captain  recalled 
a  certain  date — 1492.  In  the  very  year  that  Christopher 
Columbus  had  made  his  first  voyage,  discovering  the  In- 
dies, the  Jews  were  expelled  from  the  Spanish  peninsula, 
and  Nebrija  brought  out  the  first  Castilian  grammar. 
These  Spaniards  had  left  their  native  land  months  before 
their  idiom  had  been  codified  for  the  first  time. 

A  sailor  of  Genoa,  an  old  friend  of  Ulysses,  took  him 
to  one  of  the  harbor  cafes,  where  the  merchant  captains 
used  to  gather  together.  These  were  the  only  ones 
wearing  civilian  clothes  among  the  crowds  of  land  and 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     353 

sea  officers  who  crowded  the  divans,  obstructed  the  tables, 
and  grouped  themselves  before  the  doorway. 

These  Mediterranean  vagabonds  who  oftentimes  could 
not  converse  together  because  of  the  diversity  of  their 
native  idiom,  instinctively  sought  each  other  out,  keeping 
near  together  in  a  fraternal  silence.  Their  passive  hero- 
ism was  in  many  instances  more  admirable  than  that  of 
the  men  of  war,  who  were  able  to  return  blow  for  blow. 
All  the  officers  of  the  different  fleets,  seated  near  them, 
had  at  their  disposition  cannon,  ram,  torpedo,  great 
speed  and  aerial  telegraphy.  These  valorous  muleteers 
of  the  sea  defied  the  enemy  in  defenseless  boats  without 
wireless  and  without  cannons.  Sometimes  when  search- 
ing all  the  men  of  the  crew,  not  a  single  revolver  would 
be  found  among  them,  and  yet  these  brave  fellows  were 
daring  the  greatest  adventures  with  professional  fatalism, 
and  trusting  to  luck. 

In  the  social  groups  of  the  cafe  the  captains  would 
sometimes  relate  their  encounters  on  the  sea,  the  un- 
expected appearance  of  a  submarine,  the  torpedo  miss- 
ing aim  a  few  yards  away,  the  flight  at  full  speed  while 
being  shelled  by  their  pursuers.  They  would  flame  up 
for  an  instant  upon  recalling  their  danger,  and  then  re- 
lapse into  indifference  and  fatalism. 

"If  I've  got  to  die  by  drowning/'  they  would  always 
conclude,  "it  would  be  useless  for  me  to  try  to  avoid 
it/' 

And  they  would  hasten  their  departure  in  order  to  re- 
turn a  month  later  transporting  a  regular  fortune  in 
their  vessel,  completely  alone,  preferring  free  and  wary 
navigation  to  the  journey  in  convoy,  slipping  along  from 
island  to  island  and  from  coast  to  coast  in  order  to  out- 
wit the  submersibles. 

They  were  far  more  concerned  about  the  state  of  their 
ships,  that  for  more  than  a  year  had  not  been  cleaned, 


354  MARE  NOSTRUM 

than  about  the  dangers  of  navigation.  The  captains  of 
the  great  liners  lamented  their  luxurious  staterooms  con- 
verted into  dormitories  for  the  troops,  their  polished 
decks  that  had  been  turned  into  stables,  their  dining- 
room  where  they  used  to  sit  among  people  in  dress  suits 
and  low-neck  gowns,  which  had  now  to  be  sprayed  with 
every  class  of  disinfectant  in  order  to  repel  the  invasion 
of  vermin,  and  the  animal  odors  of  so  many  men  and 
beasts  crowded  together. 

The  decline  of  the  ships  appeared  to  be  reflected  in 
the  bearing  of  their  captains,  more  careless  than  be- 
fore, worse  dressed,  with  the  military  slovenliness  of  the 
trench-fighter,  and  with  calloused  hands  as  badly  cared 
for  as  those  of  a  stevedore. 

Among  the  naval  men  also  there  were  some  who  had 
completely  neglected  their  appearance.  These  were  the 
commanders  of  "chaluteros,"  little  ocean  fishing  steam- 
ers armed  with  a  quickfirer,  which  had  come  into  the 
Mediterranean  to  pursue  the  submersible.  They  wore 
oilskins  and  tarpaulins,  just  like  the  North  Sea  fisher- 
men, smacking  of  fuel  and  tempestuous  water.  They 
would  pass  weeks  and  weeks  on  the  sea  whatever  the 
weather,  sleeping  in  the  bottom  of  the  hold  that  smelled 
offensively  of  rancid  fish,  keeping  on  patrol  no  matter 
how  the  tempest  might  roar,  bounding  from  wave  to 
wave  like  a  cork  from  a  bottle,  in  order  to  repeat  the  ex- 
ploits of  the  ancient  corsairs. 

Ferragut  had  a  relative  in  the  army  which  was  as- 
sembling at  Salonica  making  ready  for  the  inland  march. 
As  he  did  not  wish  to  go  away  without  seeing  the  lad  he 
passed  several  mornings  making  investigations  in  the 
offices  of  the  general  staff. 

This  relative  was  his  nephew,  a  son  of  Blanes,  the 
manufacturer  of  knit  goods,  who  had  fled  from  Barce- 
lona at  the  outbreak  of  the  war  with  other  boys  devoted 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     355 

to  singing  Los  Segadores  and  perturbing  the  tranquillity 
of  the  "Consul  of  Spain"  sent  by  Madrid.  The  son  of 
the  pacific  Catalan  citizen  had  enlisted  in  the  battalion  of 
the  Foreign  Legion  made  up  to  a  great  extent  of  Span- 
iards and  Spanish-Americans. 

Blanes  had  asked  the  captain  to  see  his  son.  He  was 
sad  yet  at  the  same  time  proud  of  this  romantic  adven- 
ture blossoming  out  so  unexpectedly  in  the  utilitarian 
and  monotonous  existence  of  the  family.  A  boy  that 
had  such  a  great  future  in  his  father's  factory !  .  .  .  And 
then  he  had  related  to  Ulysses  with  shaking  voice  and 
moist  eyes  the  achievements  of  his  son, — wounded  in 
Champagne,  two  citations  and  the  Croix  de  Guerre. 
Who  would  ever  have  imagined  that  he  could  be  such 
a  hero!  .  .  .  Now  his  battalion  was  in  Salonica  after 
having  fought  in  the  Dardanelles. 

"See  if  you  can't  bring  him  back  with  you,"  repeated 
Blanes.  "Tell  him  that  his  mother  is  going  to  die 
of  grief.  .  .  .  You  can  do  so  much !" 

But  all  that  Captain  Ferragut  could  do  was  to  obtain 
a  permit  and  an  old  automobile  with  which  to  visit  the 
encampment  of  the  legionaries. 

The  arid  plain  around  Salonica  was  crossed  by  numer- 
ous roads.  The  trains  of  artillery,  the  rosaries  of  auto- 
mobiles, were  rolling  over  recently  opened  roads  that  the 
rain  had  converted  into  mire.  The  mud  was  the  worst 
calamity  that  could  befall  this  plain,  so  extremely  dusty 
in  dry  weather. 

Ferragut  passed  two  long  hours,  going  from  encamp- 
ment to  encampment,  before  reaching  his  destination. 
His  vehicle  frequently  had  to  stop  in  order  to  make  way 
for  interminable  files  of  trucks.  At  other  times  machine- 
guns,  big  guns  dragged  by  tractors,  and  provision  cars 
with  pyramids  of  sacks  and  boxes,  blocked  their  road. 

On  all  sides  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  soldiers 


356  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  different  colors  and  races.  The  captain  recalled  the 
great  invasions  of  history — Xerxes,  Alexander,  Genghis- 
Khan,  all  the  leaders  of  men  who  had  made  their  advance 
carrying  villages  en  masse  behind  their  horses,  trans- 
forming the  servants  of  the  earth  into  fighters.  There 
lacked  only  the  soldierly  women,  the  swarms  of  children, 
to  complete  exactly  the  resemblance  to  the  martial  exo- 
duses of  the  past. 

In  half  an  hour  more  he  was  able  to  embrace  his 
nephew,  who  was  with  two  other  volunteers,  an  Andu- 
lasian  and  a  South  American, — the  three  united  by  broth- 
erhood of  birth  and  by  their  continual  familiarity  with 
death. 

Ferragut  took  them  to  the  canteen  of  a  trader  estab- 
lished near  the  cantonment.  The  customers  were  seated 
under  a  sail-cloth  awning  before  boxes  that  had  con- 
tained munitions  and  were  converted  into  office  tables. 
This  discomfort  was  surpassed  by  the  prices.  In  no 
Palace  Hotel  would  drink  have  cost  such  an  extraordi- 
nary sum. 

In  a  few  moments  the  sailor  felt  a  fraternal  affection 
for  these  three  youths  to  whom  he  gave  the  nickname 
of  the  "Three  Musketeers,"  He  wished  to  treat  them  to 
the  very  best  which  the  canteen  afforded,  so  the  proprietor 
produced  a  bottle  of  champagne  or  rather  ptisan  from 
Rheims,  presenting  it  as  though  it  were  an  elixir  fabri- 
cated of  gold. 

The  amber  liquid,  bubbling  in  the  glasses,  seemed  to 
bring  the  three  youths  back  to  their  former  existence. 
Boiled  by  the  sun  and  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
habituated  to  the  hard  life  of  war,  they  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  softness  and  luxuriant  conveniences  of  former 
years. 

Ulysses  examined  them  attentively.  In  the  course  of 
the  campaign  they  had  grown  with  youth's  last  rapid 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     357 

growth.  Their  arms  were  sticking  out  to  an  ungainly 
degree  from  the  sleeves  of  their  coats,  already  too  short 
for  them.  The  rude  gymnastic  exercise  of  the  marches, 
with  the  management  of  the  shovel,  had  broadened  their 
wrists  and  calloused  their  hands. 

The  memory  of  his  own  son  surged  up  in  his  memory. 
If  only  he  could  see  him  thus,  made  into  a  soldier  like 
his  cousin !  See  him  enduring  all  the  hardships  of  mili- 
tary existence  .  .  .  but  living ! 

In  order  not  to  be  too  greatly  moved,  he  drank  and 
paid  close  attention  to  what  the  three  youths  were  say- 
ing. Blanes,  the  legionary,  as  romantic  as  the  son  of  a 
merchant  bent  upon  adventure  should  be,  was  talking  of 
the  daring  deeds  of  the  troops  of  the  Orient  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  twenty-two  years.  There  wasn't  time 
to  throw  themselves  upon  the  Bulgarians  with  bayonets 
and  arrive  at  Adrianopolis.  As  a  Catalan,  this  war  in 
Macedonia  was  touching  him  very  close. 

"We  are  going  to  avenge  Roger  de  Flor,"  he  said 
gravely. 

And  his  uncle  wanted  to  weep  and  to  laugh  before  this 
simple  faith  comparable  only  to  the  retrospective  memory 
of  the  poet  Labarta  and  that  village  secretary  who  was 
always  lamenting  the  remote  defeat  of  Ponza. 

Blanes  explained  like  a  knight-errant  the  impulse  that 
had  called  him  to  the  war.  He  wanted  to  fight  for  the 
liberty  of  all  oppressed  nations,  for  the  resurrection  of 
all  forgotten  nationalities, — Poles,  Czechs,  Jugo-Slavs. 
.  .  .  And  very  simply,  as  though  he  were  saying  some- 
thing indisputable,  he  included  Catalunia  among  the  peo- 
ple who  were  weeping  tears  of  blood  under  the  lashes 
of  the  tyrant.  Thereupon  his  companion,  the  Andalu- 
sian,  burst  forth  indignantly.  They  passed  their  time 
arguing  furiously,  exchanging  insults  and  continually 


358  MARE  NOSTRUM 

seeking  each  other's  company  as  though  they  couldn't 
live  apart. 

The  Andalusian  was  not  battling  for  the  liberty  of 
this  or  that  people.  He  had  a  longer  range  of  vision.  He 
was  not  near-sighted  and  egoistic  like  his  friend,  "the 
Catalan."  He  was  giving  his  blood  in  order  that  the 
whole  world  might  be  free  and  that  all  monarchies  should 
disappear. 

"I  am  battling  for  France  because  it  is  the  country  of 
the  great  Revolution.  Its  former  history  makes  no  dif- 
ference to  me,  for  we  still  have  kings  of  our  own,  but 
dating  from  the  I4th  of  July,  whatever  France  is,  I  con- 
sider mine  and  the  property  of  all  mankind." 

He  stopped  a  few  seconds,  searching  for  a  more  con- 
crete affirmation. 

"I  am  fighting,  Captain,  because  of  Danton  and 
Hoche." 

Ferragut  in  his  imagination  saw  the  white,  disheveled 
hair  of  Michelet  and  the  romantic  foretop  of  Lamar- 
tine  upon  a  double  pedestal  of  volumes  which  used  to 
contain  the  story-poem  of  the  Revolution. 

"And  I  am  also  fighting  for  France,"  concluded  the  lad 
triumphantly,  "because  it  is  the  country  of  Victor  Hugo." 

Ulysses  suspected  that  this  twenty-year-old  Republi- 
can was  probably  hiding  in  his  knapsack  a  blank  book 
full  of  original  verses  written  in  lead  pencil. 

The  South  American,  accustomed  to  the  disputes  of 
his  two  companions,  looked  at  his  black  fingernails  with 
the  melancholy  desperation  of  a  prophet  contemplating 
his  country  in  ruins.  Blanes,  the  son  of  a  middle-class 
citizen,  used  to  admire  him  for  his  more  distinguished 
family.  The  day  of  the  mobilization  he  had  gone  to 
Paris  in  an  automobile  of  fifty  horse-power  to  enroll  as 
a  volunteer;  he  and  his  chauffeur  had  enlisted  together. 
Then  he  had  donated  his  luxurious  vehicle  to  the  cause. 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      359 

He  had  wished  to  be  a  soldier  because  all  the  young 
fellows  in  his  club  were  leaving  for  the  war.  Further- 
more, he  felt  greatly  flattered  that  his  latest  sweetheart, 
seeing  him  in  uniform,  should  devote  a  few  tears  of  ad- 
miration and  astonishment  to  him.  He  had  felt  the 
necessity  of  producing  a  touching  effect  upon  all  the 
ladies  that  had  danced  the  tango  with  him  up  to  the 
week  before.  Besides  that,  the  millions  of  his  grand- 
father, "the  Galician,"  held  rather  tight  by  his  father, 
the  Creole,  were  slipping  through  his  hands. 

"This  experience  is  lasting  too  long,  Captain." 

In  the  beginning  he  had  believed  in  a  six  months'  war. 
The  shells  didn't  trouble  him  much ;  for  him  the  terrible 
things  were  the  vermin,  the  impossibility  of  changing  his 
clothing,  and  being  deprived  of  his  daily  bath.  If  he 
could  ever  have  supposed!  .  .  . 

And  he  summed  up  his  enthusiasm  with  this  affirma- 
tion: 

"I  am  fighting  for  France  because  it  is  a  chic  country. 
Only  in  Paris  do  the  women  know  how  to  dress.  Those 
Germans,  no  matter  how  much  they  try,  will  always  be 
very  ordinary." 

It  was  not  necessary  to  add  anything  to  this.  All  had 
been  said. 

The  three  recalled  the  hellish  months  suffered  recently 
in  the  Dardanelles,  in  a  space  of  three  miles  conquered 
by  the  bayonet.  A  rain  of  projectiles  had  fallen  inces- 
santly upon  them.  They  had  had  to  live  underground 
like  moles  and,  even  so,  the  explosion  of  the  great  shells 
sometimes  reached  them. 

In  this  tongue  of  land  opposite  Troy  through  which 
had  slipped  the  remote  history  of  humanity,  their  shov- 
els, on  opening  the  trenches,  had  stumbled  upon  the  rarest 
finds.  One  day  Blanes  and  his  companions  had  exca- 
vated pitchers,  statuettes,  and  plates  centuries  old.  At 


360  MARE  NOSTRUM 

other  times,  when  opening  trenches  that  had  served  as 
cemeteries  for  Turks,  they  had  hacked  into  repulsive 
bits  of  pulp  exhaling  an  insufferable  odor.  Self-defense 
had  obliged  the  legionaries  to  live  with  their  faces  on  a 
level  with  the  corpses  that  were  piled  up  in  the  vertical 
yard  of  removed  earth. 

"The  dead  are  like  the  truffles  in  a  pie,"  said  the  South 
American.  "An  entire  day  I  had  to  remain  with  my 
nose  touching  the  intestines  of  a  Turk  who  had  died  two 
weeks  before.  ,  .  .  No,  war  is  not  Me,  Captain,  no  mat- 
ter how  much  they  talk  of  heroism  and  sublime  things 
in  the  newspapers  and  books." 

Ulysses  wished  to  see  the  three  musketeers  again 
before  leaving  Salonica,  but  the  battalion  had  broken 
camp  and  was  now  situated  several  kilometers  further 
inland,  opposite  the  first  Bulgarian  lines.  The  enthusi- 
astic Blanes  had  already  fired  his  gun  against  the  as- 
sassins of  Roger  de  Flor. 

In  the  middle  of  November  the  Mare  Nostrum  arrived 
at  Marseilles.  Its  captain  always  felt  a  certain  admira- 
tion upon  doubling  Cape  Croisette,  and  noting  the  vast 
maritime  curves  opening  out  before  the  prow.  In  the 
center  of  it  was  an  abrupt  and  bare  hill,  jutting  into  the 
sea,  sustaining  on  its  peak  the  basilica  and  square-sided 
tower  of  Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. 

Marseilles  was  the  metropolis  of  the  Mediterranean, 
the  terminal  for  all  the  navigators  of  the  mare  nostrum. 
In  its  bay  with  choppy  waves  were  various  yellowish 
islands  fringed  with  foam  and  upon  one  of  these  the 
strong  towers  of  the  romantic  Chateau  d'If. 

All  the  crew,  from  Ferragut  down  to  the  lowest  sea- 
man, used  to  look  upon  this  city  somewhat  as  their  own 
when  they  saw,  appearing  in  the  background  of  the  bay, 
its  forests  of  masts  and  its  conglomeration  of  gray  edi- 
fices upon  which  sparkled  the  Byzantian  domes  of  the 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      361 

new  cathedral.  Around  Marseilles  there  opened  out  a 
semi-circle  of  dry  and  barren  heights  brightly  colored 
by  the  sun  of  Provence  and  spotted  by  white  cottages 
and  hamlets,  and  the  pleasure  villas  of  the  merchants 
of  the  city.  On  beyond  this  semi-circle  the  horizon  was 
bounded  by  an  amphitheater  of  rugged  and  gloomy  moun- 
tains. 

On  former  trips  the  sight  of  the  gigantic  gilded  Virgin 
which  glistened  like  a  shaft  of  fire  on  the  top  of  Notre- 
Dame-de-la-Garde  shed  an  atmosphere  of  joy  over  the 
bridge  of  the  vessel. 

"Marseilles,  Toni,"  the  captain  used  to  say  gayly.  "I 
invite  you  to  a  bouillabaisse  at  Pascal's." 

And  Toni's  hairy  countenance  would  break  into  a 
greedy  smile,  seeing  in  anticipation  the  famous  restaurant 
of  the  port,  its  twilight  shadows  smelling  of  shell-fish 
and  spicy  sauces,  and  upon  the  table  the  deep  dish  of 
fish  with  its  succulent  broth  tinged  with  saffron. 

But  now  Ulysses  had  lost  his  vigorous  joy  in  living. 
He  looked  at  the  city  with  kindly  but  sad  eyes.  He 
could  see  himself  disembarking  there  that  last  time,  sick, 
without  will-power,  overwhelmed  by  the  tragic  disap- 
pearance of  his  son. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  approached  the  mouth  of  the  old 
.harbor  having  at  its  right  the  batteries  of  the  Phare.  This 
old  port  was  the  most  interesting  souvenir  of  ancient 
Marseilles,  penetrating  like  an  aquatic  knife  into  the 
heart  of  its  clustered  homes.  The  city  extended  along 
the  wharves.  It  was  an  enormous  stretch  of  water  into 
which  all  the  streets  flowed;  but  its  area  was  now  so 
insufficient  for  the  maritime  traffic  that  eight  new  har- 
bors were  gradually  covering  the  north  shore  of  the  bay. 

An  interminable  jetty,  a  breakwater  longer  than  the 
city  itself,  was  parallel  to  the  coast,  and  in  the  space 
between  the  shore  and  this  obstacle  which  made  the 


362  MARE  NOSTRUM 

waves  foam  and  roar  were  eight  roomy  communicating 
harbors  stretching  from  Joliette  at  the  entrance  to  the 
one  which,  farthest  away,  is  connected  inland  by  the 
great  subterranean  canal,  putting  the  city  in  communi- 
cation with  the  Rhone. 

Ferragut  had  seen  anchored  in  this  succession  of  har- 
bors the  navies  of  every  land  and  even  of  every  epoch. 
Near  to  the  enormous  transatlantic  liners  were  some  very 
ancient  tartans  and  some  Greek  boats,  heavy  and  of 
archaic  form,  which  recalled  the  fleets  described  in  the 
Iliad. 

On  the  wharves  swarmed  all  kinds  of  Mediterranean 
men, — Greeks  from  the  continent  and  from  the  islands, 
Levantines  from  the  coast  of  Asia,  Spaniards,  Italians, 
Algerians,  Moroccans,  Egyptians.  Many  had  kept  their 
original  costume  and  to  this  varied  picturesque  garb  was 
united  a  diversity  of  tongues,  some  of  them  mysterious 
and  well-nigh  extinct.  As  though  infected  by  the  oral 
confusion,  the  French  themselves  began  to  forget  their 
native  language,  speaking  the  dialect  of  Marseilles,  which 
preserves  indelible  traces  of  its  Greek  origin. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  crossed  the  outer  port,  the  inner 
harbor  of  Joliette,  and  slipped  slowly  along  past  groups 
of  pedestrians  and  carts  that  were  waiting  the  closing  of 
the  steel  drawbridge  now  opening  before  their  prow. 
Then  they  cast  anchor  in  the  basin  of  Arenc  near  the 
docks. 

When  Ferragut  could  go  ashore  he  noticed  the  great 
transformation  which  this  port  had  undergone  in  war 
times. 

The  traffic  of  the  times  of  peace  with  its  infinite  variety 
of  wares  no  longer  existed.  On  the  wharves  there  were 
piled  up  only  the  monotonous  and  uniform  loads  of  pro- 
visions and  war  material. 

The  legions  of  longshoremen  had   also  disappeared. 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     363 

They  were  all  in  the  trenches.  The  sidewalks 
were  now  swept  by  women,  and  squads  of  Senegalese 
sharpshooters  were  unloading  the  cargoes, — shivering 
with  cold  in  the  sunny  winter  days,  and  bent  double  as 
though  dying  under  the  rain  or  the  breeze  of  the  Mis- 
tral. They  were  working  with  red  caps  pulled  down 
over  their  ears,  and  at  the  slightest  suspension  of  their 
labor  would  hasten  to  put  their  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  their  coats.  Sometimes  when  formed  in  vociferating 
groups  around  a  case  that  four  men  could  have  moved 
in  ordinary  times,  the  passing  of  a  woman  or  a  vehicle 
would  make  them  neglect  their  work,  their  diabolical 
faces  filled  with  childish  curiosity. 

The  unloaded  cargoes  piled  up  the  same  articles  on 
the  principal  docks, — wheat,  much  wheat,  sulphur  and 
saltpeter  for  the  composition  of  explosive  material.  On 
ether  piers  were  lined  up,  by  the  thousands,  pairs 
of  gray  wheels,  the  support  of  cannons  and  trucks; 
boxes  as  big  as  dwellings  that  contained  aeroplanes ;  huge 
pieces  of  steel  that  served  as  scaffolding  for  heavy  ar- 
tillery; great  boxes  of  guns  and  cartridges;  huge  cases 
of  preserved  food  and  sanitary  supplies, — all  the  pro- 
visioning of  the  army  struggling  in  the  extreme  end  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

Various  squads  of  men,  preceded  and  followed  by 
bayonets,  were  marching  with  rhythmic  tread  fromj 
one  port  to  another.  They  were  German  prisoners, — • 
rosy  and  happy,  in  spite  of  their  captivity,  still  wearing 
their  uniforms  of  green  cabbage  color,  with  round  caps 
on  their  shaved  heads.  They  were  going  to  work  on 
the  vessels,  loading  and  unloading  the  material  that  was 
to  serve  for  the  extermination  of  their  compatriots  and 
friends. 

The  ships  at  the  docks  seemed  to  be  increasing  in  size, 
for  on  arrival  they  had  extended  only  a  few  yards 


364  MARE  NOSTRUM 

above  the  wharf;  but  now  that  their  cargo  was  piled 
up  on  land,  they  appeared  like  towering  fortresses.  Two- 
thirds  of  the  hull,  usually  hidden  in  the  water,  were  now 
in  evidence,  showing  the  bright  red  of  their  curved  shell. 
Only  the  keel  kept  itself  in  the  water.  The  upper  third, 
that  which  remained  visible  above  the  line  of  flotation 
in  ordinary  times,  was  now  a  simple  black  cornice  that 
capped  the  long  purple  walls.  The  masts  and  smoke- 
stacks diminished  by  this  transformation  appeared  to 
belong  to  other  smaller  boats. 

Each  of  these  merchant  and  peaceful  steamers  carried 
a  quickfirer  at  the  stern  in  order  to  protect  itself  from 
the  submarine  corsairs.  England  and  France  had  mo- 
bilized their  tramp  ships  and  were  beginning  to  supply 
them  with  means  of  defense.  Some  of  them  had  not 
been  able  to  mount  their  cannon  upon  a  fixed  gun  car- 
riage, and  so  carried  a  field  gun  with  its  mouth  sticking 
out  between  the  wheels  bolted  to  the  deck. 

The  captain  in  all  his  strolls  invariably  felt  attracted 
by  the  famous  Cannebiere,  that  engulfing  roadway  which 
sucks  in  the  entire  activity  of  Marseilles. 

Some  days  a  fresh  and  violent  wind  would  eddy 
through,  littering  it  with  dust  and  papers,  and  the 
waiters  of  the  cafes  would  have  to  furl  the  great  awn- 
ings as  though  they  were  the  sails  of  a  vessel.  The  Mis- 
tral was  approaching  and  every  owner  of  an  establish- 
ment was  ordering  this  maneuver  in  order  to  withstand 
the  icy  hurricane  that  overturns  tables,  snatches  away 
chairs,  and  carries  off  everything  which  is  not  secured 
with  marine  cables. 

To  Ferragut  this  famous  avenue  of  Marseilles  was  a 
reminder  of  the  antechamber  of  Salonica.  The  same 
types  from  the  army  of  the  East  crowded  its  sidewalks, 
— English  dressed  in  khaki,  Canadians  and  Australians 
in  hats  with  up-turned  brims,  tall,  slender  Hindoos 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      365 

with  coppery  complexion  and  thick  fan-shaped  beards, 
Senegalese  sharpshooters  of  a  glistening  black,  and  An- 
ammite  marksmen  with  round  yellow  countenance  and 
eyes  forming  a  triangle.  There  was  a  continual  pro- 
cession of  dark  trucks  driven  by  soldiers,  automobiles 
full  of  officers,  droves  of  mules  coming  from  Spain  that 
were  going  to  be  shipped  to  the  Orient,  leaving  behind 
their  quick-trotting  hoofs  a  pungent  and  penetrating 
smell  of  the  stable. 

The  old  harbor  attracted  Ferragut  because  of  its  an- 
tiquity which  was  almost  as  remote  as  that  of  the 
first  Mediterranean  navigations.  On  passing  before 
the  Palace  of  the  Bourse  he  shot  a  glance  at  the  statue 
of  the  two  great  Marseillaise  navigators, — Eutymenes 
and  Pytas, — the  most  remote  ancestors  of  Mediterranean 
navigators.  One  had  explored  the  coast  of  Senegambia, 
the  other  had  gone  further  up  to  Ireland  and  the  Orkney 
Islands. 

The  ancient  Greek  colony  had  been,  during  long 
centuries,  supplanted  by  others, — Venice,  Genoa  and 
Barcelona  having  held  it  in  humble  subjection.  But 
when  those  had  fallen  and  its  hour  of  prosperity  re- 
turned, that  prosperity  was  accompanied  by  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  present  day.  Steam  machinery  had  been 
invented  and  boats  were  easily  able  to  overcome  the 
obstacles  of  the  Strait  of  Cadiz  without  being  obliged  to 
wait  weeks  until  the  violence  of  the  current  sent  by  the 
Atlantic  should  abate.  Industrialism  was  born  and  in- 
land factories  sent  forward,  over  the  recently-installed 
railroads,  a  downpour  of  products  that  the  fleets  were 
transporting  to  all  the  Mediterranean  towns.  Finally, 
upon  the  opening  of  the  Isthmus  of  Suez,  the  city  un- 
folded in  a  prodigious  way,  becoming  a  world  port,  put- 
ting itself  in  touch  with  the  entire  earth,  multiplying  its 
harbors,  which  became  gigantic  marine  sheepfolds  where 


366  MARE  NOSTRUM 

vessels  of  every  flag  were  gathered  together  in  herds. 

The  old  port,  boxed  in  the  city,  changed  its  aspect 
according  to  the  time  and  state  of  the  atmosphere.  On 
calm  mornings  it  was  a  yellowish  green  and  smelled 
slightly  of  stale  water, — organic  water,  animal  water. 
The  oyster  stands  established  on  its  wharfs  appeared 
sprinkled  with  this  water  impregnated  by  shell  fish. 

On  the  days  of  a  strong  wind  the  waters  turned  a 
terrible  dark  green,  forming  choppy  and  continuous 
waves  with  a  light  yellowish  foam.  The  boats  would 
begin  to  dance,  creaking  and  tugging  at  their  hawsers. 
Between  their  hulls  and  the  vertical  surface  of  the 
wharfs  would  be  formed  mountains  of  restless  rubbish 
eaten  underneath  by  the  fish  and  pecked  above  by  the 
sea-gulls. 

Ferragut  saw  the  swift  torpedo  destroyers  dancing 
at  the  slightest  undulation  upon  their  cables  of  twisted 
steel,  and  examined  the  improvised  submarine-chasers, 
robust  and  short  little  steamers,  constructed  for  fishing, 
that  carried  quickfirers  on  their  prows.  All  these  vessels 
were  painted  a  metallic  gray  to  make  them  indistinguish- 
able from  the  color  of  the  water,  and  were  going  in  and 
out  of  the  harbor  like  sentinels  changing  watch. 

They  mounted  guard  out  on  the  high  sea  beyond  the 
rocky  and  desert  islands  that  closed  the  bay  of  Mar- 
seilles, accosting  the  incoming  ships  in  order  to  recog- 
nize their  nationality  or  running  at  full  speed,  with  their 
wisps  of  horizontal  smoke  toward  the  point  where  they 
expected  to  surprise  the  periscope  of  the  enemy  hidden 
between  two  waters.  There  was  no  weather  bad  enough 
to  terrify  them  or  make  them  drowsy.  In  the  wildest 
storms  they  kept  the  coast  in  view,  leaping  from  wave 
to  wave,  and  only  when  others  came  to  relieve  them 
would  they  return  to  the  old  port  to  rest  a  few  hours 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Cannebiere. 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     367 

The  narrow  passageways  of  the  right  bank  attracted 
Ferragut.  This  was  ancient  Marseilles  in  which  may 
still  be  seen  some  ruined  palaces  of  the  merchants  and 
privateers  of  other  centuries.  On  these  narrow  and 
filthy  slopes  lived  the  bedizened  and  dismal  prostitutes 
of  the  entire  maritime  city. 

In  this  district  were  huddled  together  the  warriors  of 
the  French-African  colonies,  impelled  by  their  ardor 
of  race  and  by  their  desire  to  free  themselves  glutton- 
ously from  the  restrictions  of  their  Mahommedan  coun- 
try where  the  women  live  in  jealous  seclusion.  On  every 
corner  were  groups  of  Moroccan  infantry,  recently  dis- 
embarked or  convalescing  from  wounds,  young  soldiers 
with  red  caps  and  long  cloaks  of  mustard  yellow.  The 
Zouaves  of  Algiers  conversed  with  them  in  a  Spanish 
spattered  with  Arabian  and  French.  Negro  youths  who 
worked  as  stokers  in  the  vessels,  came  up  the  steep, 
narrow  streets  with  eyes  sparkling  restlessly  as  though 
contemplating  wholesale  rapine.  Under  the  doorways 
disappeared  grave  Moorish  horsemen,  trailing  long  gar- 
ments fastened  at  the  head  in  a  ball  of  whiteness,  or 
garbed  in  purplish  mantles,  with  sharp  pointed  hoods 
that  gave  them  the  aspect  of  bearded,  ddmson-clad 
monks. 

The  captain  went  through  the  upper  end  of  these 
streets,  stopping  appreciatively  to  note  the  rude  contrast 
which  they  made  with  their  terminal  vista.  Almost  all 
descended  to  the  old  harbor  with  a  ditch  of  dirty  water 
in  the  middle  of  the  gutter  that  dribbled  from  stone  to 
stone.  They  were  dark  as  the  tubes  of  a  telescope,  and 
at  the  end  of  these  evil  smelling  ditches  occupied  by 
abandoned  womanhood,  there  opened  out  a  great  space 
of  light  and  blue  color  where  could  be  seen  little  white 
sailboats,  anchored  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  a  sheet  of 
sparkling  water  and  the  houses  of  the  opposite  wharf 


368  MARE  NOSTRUM 

diminished  by  the  distance.  Through  other  gaps  ap- 
peared the  mountain  of  Notre-Dame-de-la-Gcvrde  with 
its  sharp  pointed  Basilica  topped  by  its  gleaming  statue, 
like  an  immovable,  twisted  tongue  of  flame.  Sometimes 
a  torpedo  destroyer  entering  the  old  harbor  could  be 
seen  slipping  by  the  mouth  of  one  of  these  passageways 
as  shadowy  as  though  passing  before  the  glass  of  a 
telescope. 

Feeling  fatigued  by  the  bad  smells  and  vicious  misery 
of  the  old  district,  the  sailor  returned  to  the  center  of 
the  city,  strolling  among  the  trees  and  flower  stands  of 
the  avenues.  .  .  . 

One  evening  while  awaiting  with  others  a  street  car 
in  the  Cannebiere,  he  turned  his  head  with  a  presentiment 
that  some  one  was  looking  at  his  back. 

Sure  enough !  He  saw  behind  him  on  the  edge  of  the 
sidewalk  an  elegantly-dressed,  clean-shaven  gentleman 
whose  aspect  was  that  of  an  Englishman  careful  of  his 
personal  appearance.  The  dapper  man  had  stopped  in 
surprise  as  though  he  might  have  just  recognized  Fer- 
ragut. 

The  two  exchanged  glances  without  awakening  the 
slightest  echo  in  the  captain's  memory.  .  .  .  He  could 
not  recall  this  man.  He  was  almost  sure  of  never  having 
seen  him  before.  His  shaven  face,  his  eyes  of  a  metallic 
gray,  his  elegant  pomposity  did  not  enlighten  the  Span- 
iard's memory.  Perhaps  the  unknown  had  made  a  mis- 
take. 

This  must  have  been  the  case,  judging  by  the  rapidity 
with  which  he  withdrew  his  glance  from  Ferragut  and 
went  hastily  away. 

The  captain  attached  no  importance  to  this  encounter. 
He  had  already  forgotten  it  when,  taking  the  car  but  a 
few  minutes  later,  it  recurred  to  him  in  a  new  light. 
The  face  of  the  Englishman  presented  itself  to  his  im- 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES     369 

agination  with  the  distinct  relief  of  reality.  He  could 
see  it  more  clearly  than  in  the  dying  splendor  of  the 
Cannebiere.  .  .  .  He  passed  with  indifference  over  his 
features;  in  reality  he  had  seen  them  for  the  first  time. 
But  the  eyes  I  ...  He  knew  those  eyes  perfectly.  They 
had  often  exchanged  glances  with  him.  Where?  .  .  . 
When?  .  .  . 

The  memory  of  this  man  accompanied  him  as  an  obses- 
sion even  to  his  ship  without  giving  the  slightest  answer 
to  his  questioning.  Then,  finding  himself  on  board  with 
Toni  and  the  third  officer,  he  again  forgot  it. 

Upon  going  ashore  on  the  following  days,  his  memory 
invariably  experienced  the  same  phenomena.  The  cap- 
tain would  be  going  through  the  city  without  any  thought 
of  that  individual,  but  on  entering  the  Cannebiere  the 
same  remembrance,  followed  by  an  inexplicable  anxiety, 
would  again  surge  up  in  his  mind. 

"I  wonder  where  my  Englishman  is  now,"  he  would 
think.  "Where  have  I  seen  him  before?  .  .  .  Because 
there  is  no  doubt  that  we  are  acquainted  with  each 
other." 

From  that  time  on,  he  would  look  curiously  at  all  the 
passersby  and  sometimes  would  hasten  his  step  in  order 
to  examine  more  closely  some  one  whose  back  resembled 
the  haunting  unknown.  One  afternoon  he  felt  sure  that 
he  recognized  him  in  a  hired  carriage  whose  horse  was 
going  at  a  lively  trot  through  one  of  the  avenues,  but 
when  he  tried  to  follow  it  the  vehicle  had  disappeared 
into  a  nearby  street. 

Some  days  passed  by  and  the  captain  completely  for- 
got the  meeting.  Other  affairs  more  real  and  immediate 
were  demanding  his  atttention.  His  boat  was  ready; 
they  were  going  to  send  it  to  England  in  order  to  load 
it  with  munitions  destined  for  the  army  of  the  Orient. 


370  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  morning  of  its  departure  he  went  ashore  without 
any  thought  of  going  to  the  center  of  the  city. 

In  one  of  the  wharf  streets  there  was  a  barber  shop 
frequented  by  Spanish  captains.  The  picturesque  chat- 
ter of  the  barber,  born  in  Cartagena,  the  gay,  brilliant 
chromos  on  the  walls  representing  bullfights,  the  news- 
papers from  Madrid,  forgotten  on  the  divans,  and  a 
guitar  in  one  corner  made  this  shop  a  little  bit  of  Spain 
for  the  rovers  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Before  sailing,  Ferragut  wished  to  have  his  beard 
clipped  by  this  verbose  master.  When,  an  hour  later, 
he  left  the  barber-shop,  tearing  himself  away  from  the 
interminable  farewells  of  the  proprietor,  he  passed  down 
a  broad  street,  lonely  and  silent,  between  two  rows  of 
docks. 

The  steel-barred  gates  were  closed  and  locked.  The 
warehouses,  empty  and  resounding  as  the  naves  of  a 
cathedral,  still  exhaled  the  strong  odors  of  the  wares 
which  they  had  kept  in  times  of  peace, — vanilla,  cinna- 
mon, rolls  of  leather,  nitrates  and  phosphates  for  chemi- 
cal fertilizers. 

In  all  the  long  street  he  saw  only  one  man,  com- 
ing toward  him  with  his  back  to  the  inner  harbor.  Be- 
tween the  two  long  walls  of  brick  appeared  in  the  back- 
ground the  wharf  with  its  mountains  of  merchandise, 
its  squadrons  of  black  stevedores,  wagons  and  carts.  On 
beyond  were  the  hulls  of  the  ships  sustaining  their  grove 
of  masts  and  smokestacks  and,  at  the  extreme  end,  the 
yellow  breakwater  and  the  sky  recently  washed  by  the 
rain,  with  flocks  of  little  clouds  as  white  and  placid  as 
silky  sheep. 

The  man  who  was  returning  from  the  dock  and  walking 
along  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Ferragut  suddenly  stopped 
and,  turning  upon  his  tracks,  returned  again  to  the 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      371 

quay.  .  .  .  This  movement  awakened  the  captain's  curi- 
osity, sharpening  his  senses.  Suddenly  he  had  a  presenti- 
ment that  this  pedestrian  was  his  Englishman,  though 
dressed  differently  and  with  less  elegance.  He  could 
only  see  his  rapidly  disappearing  back,  but  his  instinct 
in  this  moment  was  superior  to  his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  did 
not  need  to  look  further.  ...  It  was  the  Englishman. 

And  without  knowing  why,  he  hastened  his  steps  in 
order  to  catch  up  with  him.  Then  he  broke  into  a  run, 
rinding  that  he  was  alone  in  the  street,  and  that  the  other 
one  had  disappeared  around  the  corner. 

When  Ferragut  reached  the  harbor  he  could  see  him 
hastening  away  with  an  elastic  step  which  amounted 
almost  to  flight.  Before  him  was  a  ridge  of  bundles 
piled  up  in  uneven  rows.  He  was  going  to  lose  sight 
of  him;  a  minute  later  it  would  be  impossible  to  find 
him. 

The  captain  hesitated.  "What  motive  have  I  for  pur- 
suing this  unknown  person?  .  .  ."  And  just  as  he  was 
formulating  this  question,  the  other  one  slowed  down  a 
little  in  order  to  turn  his  head  and  see  if  he  were  still 
being  followed. 

Suddenly  a  rapid  phenomenal  transformation  took 
place  in  Ferragut.  He  had  not  recognized  this  man's 
glance  when  he  had  almost  run  into  him  on  the  sidewalk 
of  the  Cannebiere,  and  now  that  there  was  between  the 
two  a  distance  of  some  fifty  yards,  now  that  the  other 
was  fleeing  and  showing  only  a  fugitive  profile,  the  cap- 
tain identified  him  despite  the  fact  that  he  could  not 
distinguish  him  clearly  at  such  a  distance. 

With  a  sharp  click  a  curtain  of  his  memory  seemed  to 
be  dashed  aside,  letting  in  torrents  of  light.  ...  It  was 
the  counterfeit  Russian  count,  he  was  sure  of  that, — 
shaven  and  disguised,  who  undoubtedly  was  "operating" 
in  Marseilles,  directing  new  services,  months  after  hav- 


372  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ing  prepared  the  entrance  of  the  submersibles  into  the 
Mediterranean. 

Surprise  held  Ferragut  spellbound.  With  the  same 
imaginative  rapidity  with  which  a  drowning  person 
giddily  recalls  all  the  scenes  of  his  former  life,  the  cap- 
tain now  beheld  his  infamous  existence  in  Naples,  his 
expedition  in  the  schooner  carrying  supplies  to  the  sub- 
marines and  then  the  torpedo  which  had  opened  a  breach 
in  the  Calif ornian.  .  .  .  And  this  man,  perhaps,  was  the 
one  who  had  made  his  poor  son  fly  through  the  air  in 
countless  pieces!  .  .  . 

He  also  saw  his  uncle,  the  Triton,  just  as  when  a  little 
chap  he  used  to  listen  to  him  in  the  harbor  of  Valencia. 
He  recalled  his  story  of  a  certain  night  of  Egyptian  orgy 
in  a  low  cafe  in  Alexandria  where  he  had  had  to  "sting" 
a  man  with  his  dagger  in  order  to  force  his  way. 

Instinct  made  him  carry  his  hand  to  his  belt.  Noth- 
ing! .  .  .  He  cursed  modern  life  and  its  uncertain  se- 
curities, which  permit  men  to  go  from  one  side  of  the 
world  to  the  other  confident,  disarmed,  without  means  of 
attack.  In  other  ports  he  would  have  come  ashore  with  a 
revolver  in  the  pocket  of  his  trousers.  .  .  .  But  in  Mar- 
seilles !  He  was  not  even  carrying  a  penknife ;  he  had 
only  his  fists.  ...  At  that  moment  he  would  have  given 
his  entire  vessel,  his  life  even,  for  an  instrument  that 
would  enable  him  to  kill  .  .  .  kill  with  one  blow !  .  .  . 

The  bloodthirsty  vehemence  of  the  Mediterranean  was 
overwhelming  him.  To  kill !  ...  He  did  not  know  how 
he  was  going  to  do  it,  but  he  must  kill. 

The  first  thing  was  to  prevent  the  escape  of  his  en- 
emy. He  was  going  to  fall  upon  him  with  his  fists,  with 
his  teeth,  staging  a  prehistoric  struggle, — the  animal  fight 
before  mankind  had  invented  the  club.  Perhaps  that 
other  man  was  hiding  firearms  and  might  kill  him ;  but 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      373 

he,  in  his  superb  vengeance,  could  see  only  the  death  of 
the  enemy,  repelling  all  fear. 

In  order  that  his  victim  might  not  get  out  of  his  sight, 
he  ran  toward  him  without  any  dissimulation  whatever, 
as  though  he  might  have  been  in  the  desert,  at  full 
speed.  The  instinct  of  attack  made  him  stoop,  grasp  a 
piece  of  wood  lying  on  the  ground, — a  kind  of  rustic 
handspike, — and  armed  in  this  primitive  fashion  he  con- 
tinued his  race. 

All  this  had  lasted  but  a  few  seconds.  The  other  one, 
perceiving  the  hostile  pursuit,  was  also  running  frankly, 
disappearing  among  the  hills  of  packages. 

The  captain  saw  confusedly  that  some  shadows  were 
leaping  around  him,  preventing  his  progress.  His  eyes 
that  were  seeing  everything  red  finally  managed  to  dis- 
tinguish a  few  black  faces  and  some  white  ones.  .  .  . 
They  were  the  soldiers  and  civilian  stevedores,  alarmed 
by  the  aspect  of  this  man  who  was  running  like  a  lunatic. 

He  uttered  a  curse  upon  finding  himself  stopped. 
With  the  instinct  of  the  multitude,  these  people  were  only 
concerned  with  the  aggressor,  letting  the  one  who  was 
fleeing  go  free.  Ferragut  could  not  keep  his  wrath  bot- 
tled up  on  that  account.  He  had  to  reveal  his  secret. 

"He  is  a  spy!  ...  A  Boche  spy!  .  .  ." 

He  said  this  in  a  dull,  disjointed  voice  and  never  did 
his  word  of  command  obtain  such  a  noisy  echo. 

"A  spy!  .  .  ." 

The  cry  made  men  rise  up  as  though  vomited  forth  by 
the  earth ;  from  mouth  to  mouth  it  leaped,  repeating  itself 
incessantly,  penetrating  through  the  docks  and  the  boats, 
vibrating  even  beyond  the  reach  of  the  eye,  permeating 
everywhere  with  the  confusion  and  rapidity  of  sound 
waves.  "A  spy!  .  .  ."  Men  came  running  with  re- 
doubled agility;  the  stevedores  were  abandoning  their 
loads  in  order  to  join  the  pursuit;  people  were  leaping 


374  MARE  NOSTRUM 

from  the  steamers  in  order  to  unite  in  the  human  hunt. 

The  author  of  the  noisy  alarm,  he  who  had  given  the 
cry,  saw  himself  outdistanced  and  ignored  by  the  pur- 
suing streams  of  people  which  he  had  just  called  forth. 
Ferragut,  always  running,  remained  behind  the  negro 
sharpshooters,  the  stevedores,  the  harbor  guard,  the  sea- 
men that  were  hastening  from  all  sides  crowding  in  the 
alleyways  between  the  boxes  and  bundles.  .  .  .  They 
were  like  the  greyhounds  that  follow  the  windings  of 
the  forest,  making  the  stag  come  out  in  the  open  field, 
like  the  ferrets  that  slip  along  through  the  subterranean 
valleys,  obliging  the  hare  to  return  to  the  light  of  day. 
The  fugitive,  surrounded  in  a  labyrinth  of  passageways, 
colliding  with  enemies  at  every  turn,  came  running  out 
through  the  opposite  end  and  continued  his  race  the 
whole  length  of  the  wharf.  The  chase  lasted  but  a  few 
instants  after  coming  out  on  ground  free  of  obstacles. 
"A  spy !  .  .  ."  The  voice,  more  rapid  than  the  legs,  out- 
dictanced  him.  The  cries  of  the  pursuers  warned  the 
people  who  were  working  afar  off,  without  understand- 
ing the  alarm. 

Suddenly  the  fugitive  was  within  a  concave  semi-circle 
of  men  who  were  awaiting  him  firmly,  and  a  convex 
semi-circle  following  his  footsteps  in  irregular  pursuit. 
The  two  multitudes,  closing  their  extremes,  united  and 
the  spy  was  a  prisoner. 

Ferragut  saw  that  he  was  intensely  pale,  panting, 
casting  his  eyes  around  him  with  the  expression  of  an 
animal  at  bay,  but  still  thinking  of  the  possibility  of  de- 
fending himself. 

His  right  hand  was  feeling  around  one  of  his  pockets. 
Perhaps  he  was  going  to  draw  out  a  revolver  in  order  to 
die,  defending  himself.  A  negro  nearby  raised  a  beam 
of  wood  which  he  was  grasping  as  a  club.  The  spy's 
hand,  displaying  a  bit  of  paper  between  the  fingers,  was 


THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  MARSEILLES      375 

hastily  raised  toward  his  mouth;  but  the  negro's  blow, 
suspended  in  the  air,  fell  upon  his  arm,  making  it  hang 
inert.  The  spy  bit  his  lips  in  order  to  keep  back  a  roar 
of  pain. 

The  paper  had  rolled  upon  the  ground  and  several 
hands  at  once  tried  to  pick  it  up.  A  petty  officer 
smoothed  it  out  before  examining  it.  It  was  a  piece  of 
thin  paper  sketched  with  the  outline  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. The  entire  sea  was  laid  out  in  squares  like  a 
chess  board  and  in  the  center  of  each  of  these  squares 
there  was  a  number.  These  squares  were  charted  sec- 
tions whose  numbers  made  the  submarines  know,  by 
wireless,  where  they  were  to  lie  in  wait  for  the  allied 
vessels  and  torpedo  them. 

Another  officer  explained  rapidly  to  the  people  crowd- 
ing close,  the  importance  of  the  discovery.  "Indeed  he 
was  a  spy!"  This  affirmation  awakened  the  joy  of  cap- 
ture and  that  impulsive  desire  for  vengeance  that  at  cer- 
tain times  crazes  a  crowd. 

The  men  from  the  boats  were  the  most  furious,  for 
the  very  reason  that  they  were  constantly  encountering 
the  treacherous  submarine  traps.  "Ah,  the  bandit !  .  .  ." 
Many  cudgelings  fell  upon  him,  making  him  stagger 
under  their  blows. 

When  the  prisoner  was  protected  by  the  breasts  of 
various  sub-officers,  Ferragut  could  see  him  close  by, 
with  one  temple  spotted  with  blood  and  a  cold  and 
haughty  expression  in  his  eye.  Then  he  realized  that 
the  prisoner  had  dyed  his  hair. 

He  had  fled  in  order  to  save  himself;  he  had  shown 
himself  humble  and  timorous  upon  being  approached, 
believing  that  it  would  still  be  possible  to  lie  out  of  it. 
But  the  paper  that  he  had  tried  to  hide  in  his  mouth 
was  now  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  ...  It  was  useless 
to  pretend  longer !  .  .  . 


376  MARE  NOSTRUM 

And  he  drew  himself  up  proudly  like  every  army 
man  who  considers  his  death  certain.  The  officer  of 
the  military  caste  reappeared,  looking  haughtily  at  his 
unknown  pursuers,  imploring  protection  only  from  the 
kepis  with  its  band  of  gold. 

Upon  discovering  Ferragut,  he  surveyed  him  fixedly 
with  a  glacial  and  disdainful  insolence.  His  lips  also 
curled  with  an  expression  of  contempt. 

They  said  nothing,  but  the  captain  surmised  his  sound- 
less words.  They  were  insults.  It  was  the  insult  of 
the  man  of  the  superior  hierarchy  to  his  faithless  serv- 
ant; the  pride  of  the  noble  official  who  accuses  himself 
for  having  trusted  in  the  loyalty  of  a  simple  merchant 
marine. 

"Traitor!  .  .  .  Traitor!"  his  insolent  eyes  and  mur- 
muring, voiceless  lips  seemed  to  be  saying. 

Ulysses  became  furious  before  this  haughtiness,  but 
his  wrath  was  cold  and  self-contained  on  seeing  the 
enemy  deprived  of  defense. 

He  advanced  toward  the  prisoner,  like  one  of  the 
many  who  were  insulting  him,  shaking  his  fist  at  him. 
His  glance  sustained  that  of  the  German  and  he  spoke 
to  him  in  Spanish  with  a  dull  voice. 

"My  son.  .  .  .  My  only  son  was  blown  to  a  thousand 
atoms  by  the  torpedoing  of  the  Calif ornian!" 

These  words  made  the  spy  change  expression.  His 
lips  separated,  emitting  a  slight  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Ah!  .  .  ." 

The  arrogant  light  in  his  pupils  faded  away.  Then 
he  lowered  his  eyes  and  soon  after  hung  his  head.  The 
vociferating  crowd  was  shoving  and  carrying  him  along 
without  taking  into  consideration  the  man  who  had  given 
the  alarm  and  begun  the  chase. 

That  very  afternoon  the  Mare  Nostrum  sailed  from 
Marseilles. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  BARCELONA 

FOUR  months  later  Captain  Ferragut  was  in  Bar- 
celona. 

During  the  interval  he  had  made  three  trips  to  Salon- 
ica,  and  on  the  second  had  to  appear  before  a  naval  cap- 
tain of  the  army  of  the  Orient.  The  French  officer  was 
informed  of  his  former  expeditions  for  the  victualing 
of  the  allied  troops.  He  knew  his  name  and  looked  upon 
him  as  does  a  judge  interested  in  the  accused.  He  had 
received  from  Marseilles  a  long  telegram  with  reference 
to  Ferragut.  A  spy  submitted  to  military  justice  was 
accusing  him  of  having  carried  supplies  to  the  German 
submarines. 

"How  about  that,  Captain?  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  hesitated,  looking  at  the  official's  grave  face, 
framed  by  a  grey  beard.  This  man  inspired  his  con- 
fidence. He  could  respond  negatively  to  such  questions ; 
it  would  be  difficult  for  the  German  to  prove  his 
affirmation;  but  he  preferred  to  tell  the  truth,  with  the 
simplicity  of  one  who  does  not  try  to  hide  his  faults,  de- 
scribing himself  just  as  he  had  been, — blind  with  lust, 
dragged  down  by  the  amorous  artifices  of  an  adven- 
turess. 

"The  women!  .  .  .  Ah,  the  women !"  murmured  the 
French  chief  with  the  melancholy  smile  of  a  magistrate 
who  does  not  lose  sight  of  human  weaknesses  and  has 
participated  in  them. 

Nevertheless  Ferragut's  transgression  was  of  gravest 

377 


378  MARE  NOSTRUM 

importance.  He  had  aided  in  staging  the  submarine  at- 
tack in  the  Mediterranean.  .  .  .  But  when  the  Spanish 
captain  related  how  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  victims, 
how  his  son  had  died  in  the  torpedoing  of  the  Calif  ornian, 
the  judge  appeared  touched,  looking  at  him  less  severely. 

Then  Ferragut  related  his  encounter  with  the  spy  in 
the  harbor  of  Marseilles. 

"I  have  sworn,"  he  said  finally,  "to  devote  my  ship 
and  my  life  to  causing  all  the  harm  possible  to  the  mur- 
derers of  my  son.  .  .  .  That  man  is  denouncing  me  in 
order  to  avenge  himself.  I  realize  that  my  headlong 
blindness  dragged  me  to  a  crime  that  I  shall  never  forget. 
I  am  sufficiently  punished  in  the  death  of  my  son.  .  .  . 
But  that  does  not  matter;  let  them  sentence  me,  too." 

The  chief  remained  sunk  in  deep  reflection,  forehead 
in  hand  and  elbow  on  the  table.  Ferragut  recognized 
here  military  justice,  expeditious,  intuitive,  passional, 
attentive  to  the  sentiments  that  have  scarcely  any  weight 
in  other  tribunals,  judging  by  the  action  of  conscience 
more  than  by  the  letter  of  the  law,  and  capable  of  shoot- 
ing a  man  with  the  same  dispatch  that  he  would  employ 
in  setting  him  at  liberty. 

When  the  eyes  of  the  judge  again  fixed  themselves 
upon  him,  they  had  an  indulgent  light.  He  had  been 
guilty,  not  on  account  of  money  nor  treason,  but  crazed 
by  a  woman.  Who  has  not  something  like  this  in  his 
own  history?  .  .  .  "Ah,  the  women!"  repeated  the 
Frenchman,  as  though  lamenting  the  most  terrible  form 
of  enslavement.  .  .  .  But  the  victim  had  already  suf- 
fered enough  in  the  loss  of  his  son.  Besides,  they  owed 
to  him  the  discovery  and  arrest  of  an  important  spy. 

"Your  hand,  Captain,"  he  concluded,  holding  out  his 
own.  "All  that  we  have  said  will  be  just  between  our- 
selves. It  is  a  sacred,  confessional  secret.  I  will  ar- 


IN  BARCELONA  379 

range  it  with  the  Council  of  War.  .  .  .  You  may  con- 
tinue lending  your  services  to  our  cause." 

And  Ferragut  was  not  annoyed  further  about  the  af- 
fair of  Marseilles.  Perhaps  they  were  watching  him 
discreetly  and  keeping  sight  of  him  in  order  to  convince 
themselves  of  his  entire  innocence;  but  this  suspected 
vigilance  never  made  itself  felt  nor  occasioned  him  any 
trouble. 

On  the  third  trip  to  Salonica  the  French  captain  saw 
him  once  at  a  distance,  greeting  him  with  a  grave  smile 
which  showed  that  he  no  longer  was  thinking  of  him  as 
a  possible  spy. 

Upon  its  return,  the  Mare  Nostrum  anchored  at  Barce- 
lona to  take  on  cloth  for  the  army  service,  and  other  in- 
dustrial articles  of  which  the  troops  of  the  Orient 
stood  in  need.  Ferragut  did  not  make  this  trip  for  mer- 
cantile reasons.  An  affectionate  interest  was  drawing 
him  there.  .  .  .  He  needed  to  see  Cinta,  feeling  that  in 
his  soul  the  past  was  again  coming  to  life. 

The  image  of  his  wife,  vivacious  and  attractive,  as  in 
the  early  years  of  their  marriage,  kept  rising  before  him. 
It  was  not  a  resurrection  of  the  old  love;  that  would 
have  been  impossible.  .  .  .  But  his  remorse  made  him 
see  her,  idealized  by  distance,  with  all  her  qualities  of  a 
sweet  and  modest  woman. 

He  wished  to  reestablish  the  cordial  relations  of  other 
times,  to  have  all  the  past  pardoned,  so  that  she  would 
no  longer  look  at  him  with  hatred,  believing  him  respon- 
sible for  the  death  of  her  son. 

In  reality  she  was  the  only  woman  who  had  loved 
him  sincerely,  as  she  was  able  to  love,  without  violence 
or  passional  exaggeration,  and  with  the  tranquillity 
of  a  comrade.  The  other  women  no  longer  existed. 
They  were  a  troop  of  shadows  that  passed  through  his 
memory  like  specters  of  visible  shape  but  without  color. 


380  MARE  NOSTRUM 

As  for  that  last  one,  that  Freya  whom  bad  luck  had  put 
in  his  way —  .  .  .  How  the  captain  hated  her!  How 
he  wished  to  meet  her  and  return  a  part  of  the  harm 
she  had  done  him!  .  .  . 

Upon  seeing  his  wife,  Ulysses  imagined  that  no  time 
had  passed  by.  He  found  her  just  as  at  parting,  with 
her  two  nieces  seated  at  her  feet,  making  interminable, 
complicated  blonde  lace  upon  the  cylindrical  pillows  sup- 
ported on  their  knees. 

The  only  novelty  of  the  captain's  stay  in  this  dwelling 
of  monastic  calm  was  that  Don  Pedro  abstained  from 
his  visits.  Cinta  received  her  husband  with  a  pallid 
smile.  In  that  smile  he  suspected  the  work  of  time.  She 
had  continued  thinking  of  her  son  every  hour,  but  with  a 
resignation  that  was  drying  her  tears  and  permitting 
her  to  continue  the  deliberate  mechanicalness  of  exist- 
ence. Furthermore,  she  wished  to  remove  the  impres- 
sion of  the  angry  words,  inspired  by  grief, — the  remem- 
brance of  that  scene  of  rebellion  in  which  she  had  arisen 
like  a  wrathful  accuser  against  the  father.  And  Fer- 
ragut  for  some  days  believed  that  he  was  living  just  as 
in  past  years  when  he  had  not  yet  bought  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum and  was  planning  to  remain  always  ashore.  Cinta 
was  attentive  to  his  wishes  and  obedient  as  a  Christian 
wife  ought  to  be.  Her  words  and  acts  revealed  a  desire 
to  forget,  to  make  herself  agreeable. 

But  something  was  lacking  that  had  made  the  past  so 
sweet.  The  cordiality  of  youth  could  not  be  resuscitated. 
The  remembrance  of  the  son  was  always  intervening  be- 
tween the  two,  hardly  ever  leaving  their  thoughts.  And 
so  it  would  always  be ! 

Since  that  house  could  no  longer  be  a  real  home  to 
him,  he  again  began  to  await  impatiently  the  hour  of  sail- 
ing. His  destiny  was  to  live  henceforth  on  the  ship,  to 
pass  the  rest  of  his  days  upon  the  waves  like  the  accursed 


IN  BARCELONA  381 

captain  of  the  Dutch  legend,  until  the  pallid  virgin 
wrapped  in  black  veils — Death — should  come  to  rescue 
him. 

While  the  steamer  finished  loading  he  strolled  through 
the  city  visiting  his  cousins,  the  manufacturers,  or  re- 
maining idly  in  the  cafes.  He  looked  with  interest  on  the 
human  current  passing  through  the  Ramblas  in  which 
were  mingled  the  natives  of  the  country  and  the  pic- 
turesque and  absurd  medley  brought  in  by  the  war. 

The  first  thing  that  Ferragut  noticed  was  the  visible 
diminution  of  German  refugees. 

Months  before  he  had  met  them  everywhere,  filling  the 
hotels  and  monopolizing  the  cafes, — their  green  hats 
and  open-neck  shirts  making  them  recognized  immedi- 
ately. The  German  women  in  showy  and  extravagant 
gowns,  were  everywhere  kissing  each  other  when  meet- 
ing, and  talking  in  shrieks.  The  German  tongue,  con- 
founded with  the  Catalan  and  the  Castilian,  seemed  to 
have  become  naturalized.  On  the  roads  and  moun- 
tains could  be  seen  rows  of  bare-throated  boys  with 
heads  uncovered,  staff  in  hand,  and  Alpine  knapsack  on 
the  back,  occupying  their  leisure  with  pleasure  excur- 
sions that  were  at  the  same  time,  perhaps,  a  fore- 
sighted  study. 

These  Germans  had  all  come  from  South  America, — 
especially  from  Brazil,  Argentina,  and  Chile.  From  Bar- 
celona they  had,  at  the  beginning  of  the  war,  tried  to  re- 
turn to  their  own  country  but  were  now  interned,  unable 
to  continue  their  voyage  for  fear  of  the  French  and 
English  cruisers  patrolling  the  Mediterranean. 

At  first  no  one  had  wished  to  take  the  trouble  to  settle 
down  in  this  land,  and  they  had  all  clustered  together 
in  sight  of  the  sea  with  the  hope  of  being  the  first  to  em- 
bark at  the  very  moment  that  the  road  of  navigation 
might  open  for  them. 


382  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  war  was  going  to  be  very  short.  .  .  .  Exceedingly 
short!  The  Kaiser  and  his  irresistible  army  would  re- 
quire but  six  months  to  impose  their  rule  upon  all  Europe. 
The  Germans  enriched  by  commerce  were  lodged  in  the 
hotels.  The  poor  who  had  been  working  in  the  new 
world  as  farmers  or  shop  clerks  were  quartered  in  a 
slaughter  house  on  the  outskirts.  Some,  who  were  mu- 
sicians, had  acquired  old  instruments  and,  forming  stroll- 
ing street  bands,  were  imploring  alms  for  their  roarings 
from  village  to  village. 

But  the  months  were  passing  by,  the  war  was  being 
prolonged,  and  nobody  could  now  discern  the  end.  The 
number  of  those  taking  arms  against  the  medieval  im- 
perialism of  Berlin  was  constantly  growing  greater,  and 
the  German  refugees,  finally  convinced  that  their  wait 
was  going  to  be  a  very  long  one,  were  scattering  them- 
selves through  the  interior  of  the  state,  hunting  a  more 
satisfying  and  less  expensive  existence.  Those  who  had 
been  living  in  luxurious  hotels  were  establishing 
themselves  in  villas  and  chalets  of  the  suburbs ;  the  poor, 
tired  of  the  rations  of  the  slaughter-house,  were  exerting 
themselves  to  find  jobs  in  the  public  works  of  the  in- 
terior. 

Many  were  still  remaining  in  Barcelona,  meeting  to- 
gether in  certain  beer  gardens  to  read  the  home  periodi- 
cals and  talk  mysteriously  of  the  works  of  war. 

Ferragut  recognized  them  at  once  upon  passing  them 
in  the  Rambla.  Some  were  dealers,  traders  established 
for  a  long  time  in  the  country,  bragging  of  their  Catalan 
connections  with  that  lying  facility  of  adaptability  pe- 
culiar to  their  race.  Others  came  from  South  America 
and  were  associated  with  those  in  Barcelona  by  the  free- 
masonry of  comradeship  and  patriotic  interest.  But  they 
were  all  Germans,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  the 
captain  immediately  recall  his  son,  planning  bloody 


IN  BARCELONA 

vengeance.  He  sometimes  wished  to  have  in  his  arm  all 
the  blind  forces  of  Nature  in  order  to  blot  out  his  ene- 
mies with  one  blow.  It  annoyed  him  to  see  them  estab- 
lished in  his  country,  to  have  to  pass  them  daily  without 
protest  and  without  aggression,  respecting  them  because 
the  laws  demanded  it. 

He  used  to  like  to  stroll  among  the  flower  stands  of 
the  Rambla,  between  the  two  walls  of  recently-cut  flow- 
ers that  were  still  guarding  in  their  corollas  the  dews  of 
daybreak.  Each  iron  table  was  a  pyramid  formed  of  all 
the  hues  of  the  rainbow  and  all  the  fragrance  that  the 
earth  can  bring  forth. 

The  fine  weather  was  beginning.  The  trees  of  the 
Ramblas  were  covering  themselves  with  leaves  and  in 
their  shady  branches  were  twittering  thousands  of  birds 
with  the  deafening  tenacity  of  the  crickets. 

The  captain  found  special  enjoyment  in  surveying 
the  ladies  in  lace  mantillas  who  were  selecting  bouquets 
in  the  refreshing  atmosphere.  No  situation,  however 
anguished  it  might  be,  ever  left  him  insensible  to  feminine 
attractions. 

One  morning,  passing  slowly  through  the  crowds,  he 
noticed  that  a  woman  was  following  him.  Several 
times  she  crossed  his  path,  smiling  at  him,  hunting  a  pre- 
text for  beginning  conversation.  Such  insistence  was 
not  particularly  gratifying  to  his  pride;  for  she  was  a 
female  of  protruding  bust  and  swaying  hips,  a  cook  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm,  like  many  others  who  were  passing 
through  the  Rambla  in  order  to  add  a  bunch  of  flowers 
to  the  daily  purchase  of  eatables. 

Finding  that  the  sailor  was  not  moved  by  her  smiles 
nor  the  glances  from  her  sharp  eyes,  she  planted  herself 
before  him,  speaking  to  him  in  Catalan. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  are  you  not  a  ship  captain 
named  Don  Ulysses?  .  .  ." 


384  MARE  NOSTRUM 

.  This  started  the  conversation.  The  cook,  convinced 
that  it  was  he,  continued  talking  with  a  mysterious  smile. 
A  most  beautiful  lady  was  desirous  of  seeing  him.  .  .  . 
And  she  gave  him  the  address  of  a  towered  villa  situated 
at  the  foot  of  Tibidabo  in  a  recently  constructed  district. 
He  could  make  his  visit  at  three  in  the  afternoon. 

"Come,  sir/'  she  added  with  a  look  of  sweet  promise. 
"You  will  never  regret  the  trip." 

All  questions  were  useless.  The  woman  would  say 
no  more.  The  only  thing  that  could  be  gathered  from 
her  evasive  answers  was  that  the  person  sending  her 
had  left  her  upon  seeing  the  captain. 

When  the  messenger  had  gone  away  he  wished  to  fol- 
low her.  But  the  fat  old  wife  shook  her  head  repeatedly. 
Her  astuteness  was  quite  accustomed  to  eluding  pursuit, 
and  without  Ferragut's  knowing  exactly  how,  she  slipped 
away,  mingling  with  the  groups  near  the  Plaza  of  Cata- 
lunia. 

"I  shall  not  go,"  was  the  first  thing  that  Ferragut  said 
on  finding  himself  alone. 

He  knew  just  what  that  invitation  signified.  He  re- 
called an  infinite  number  of  former  unconfessable  friend- 
ships that  he  had  had  in  Barcelona, — women  that  he 
had  met  in  other  times,  between  voyages,  without  any 
passion  whatever,  but  through  his  vagabond  curiosity, 
anxious  for  novelty.  Perhaps  some  one  of  these  had 
seen  him  in  the  Rambla,  sending  this  intermediary  in 
order  to  renew  the  old  relations.  The  captain  probably 
enjoyed  the  fame  of  a  rich  man  now  that  everybody  was 
commenting  upon  the  amazingly  good  business  transacted 
by  the  proprietors  of  ships. 

"I  shall  not  go,"  he  again  told  himself  energetically.  He 
considered  it  useless  to  bother  about  this  interview,  to 
encounter  the  mercenary  smile  of  a  familiar  but  for- 
gotten acquaintance. 


IN  BARCELONA  385 

But  the  insistence  of  the  recollection  and  the  very 
tenacity  with  which  he  kept  repeating  to  himself  his 
promise  not  to  keep  the  tryst,  made  Ferragut  begin  to 
suspect  that  it  might  be  just  as  well  to  go  after  all. 

After  luncheon  his  will-power  weakened.  He  didn't 
know  what  to  do  with  himself  during  the  afternoon.  His 
only  distraction  was  to  visit  his  cousins  in  their  counting- 
houses,  or  to  meander  through  the  Rambla.  Why  not 
go?  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  might  be  mistaken,  and  the  inter- 
view might  prove  an  interesting  one.  At  all  events,  he 
would  have  the  chance  of  retiring  after  a  brief  con- 
versation about  the  past.  .  .  .  His  curiosity  was  becom- 
ing excited  by  the  mystery. 

And  at  three  in  the  afternoon  he  took  a  street  car 
that  conducted  him  to  the  new  districts  springing  up 
around  the  base  of  Tibidabo. 

The  commercial  bourgeoisie  had  covered  these  lands 
with  an  architectural  efflorescence,  legitimate  daughter  of 
their  dreams.  Shopkeepers  and  manufacturers  had 
wished  to  have  here  a  pleasure  house,  traditionally  called 
a  torre,  in  order  to  rest  on  Sundays  and  at  the  same  time 
make  a  show  of  their  wealth  with  these  Gothic,  Arabic, 
Greek,  and  Persian  creations.  The  most  patriotic  were 
relying  on  the  inspiration  of  native  architects  who  had 
invented  a  Catalan  art  with  pointed  arches,  battlements, 
and  ducal  coronets.  These  medieval  coronets,  which 
were  repeated  even  on  the  peaks  of  the  chimney  pots, 
were  the  everlasting  decorative  motif  of  an  industrial 
city  little  given  to  dreams  and  lusting  for  lucre. 

Ferragut  advanced  through  the  solitary  street  between 
two  rows  of  freshly  transplanted  trees  that  were  just 
sending  forth  their  first  growth.  He  looked  at  the  fa- 
$ades  of  the  torres  made  of  blocks  of  cement  imitating 
the  stone  of  the  old  fortresses,  or  with  tiles  which  repre- 


386  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sented  fantastic  landscapes,  absurd  flowers,  bluish,  glazed 
nymphs. 

Upon  getting  out  of  the  street  car  he  made  a  resolution. 
He  would  look  at  the  outside  only  of  the  house.  Per- 
haps that  would  aid  him  in  discovering  the  woman !  Then 
he  would  just  continue  on  his  way. 

But  on  reaching  the  torre,  whose  number  he  still  kept 
in  mind,  and  pausing  a  few  seconds  before  its  architec- 
ture of  a  feudal  castle  whose  interior  was  probably  like 
that  of  the  beer  gardens,  he  saw  the  door  opening, 
and  appearing  in  it  the  same  woman  that  had  talked  with 
him  in  the  flower  Rambla. 

"Come  in,  Captain." 

And  the  captain  was  not  able  to  resist  the  suggestive 
smile  of  the  cook. 

He  found  himself  in  a  kind  of  hall  similar  to  the  fa- 
c,ade,  with  a  Gothic  fireplace  of  alabaster  imitating  oak, 
great  jars  of  porcelain,  pipes  the  size  of  walking-sticks, 
and  old  armor  adorning  the  walls.  Various  wood-cuts 
reproducing  modern  pictures  of  Munich  alternated  with 
these  decorations.  Opposite  the  fireplace  William  II 
was  displaying  one  of  his  innumerable  uniforms,  re- 
splendent in  gold  and  a  gaudy  frame. 

The  house  appeared  uninhabited.  Heavy  soft  cur- 
tains deadened  every  sound.  The  corpulent  go-between 
had  disappeared  with  the  lightness  of  an  immaterial  be- 
ing, as  though  swallowed  up  by  the  wall.  While  scowling 
at  the  portrait  of  the  Kaiser,  the  sailor  began  to  feel  dis- 
quieted in  this  silence  which  appeared  to  him  almost  hos- 
tile. .  .  And  he  was  not  carrying  arms. 

The  smiling  woman  again  presented  herself  with  the 
same  slippery  smoothness. 

"Come  in,  Don  Ulysses." 

She  had  opened  a  door,  and  Ferragut  on  advancing 
felt  that  this  door  was  locked  behind  him. 


IN  BARCELONA  387 

The  first  thing  that  he  could  see  was  a  window,  broader 
than  it  was  high,  of  colored  glass.  A  Valkyrie  was 
galloping  across  it,  with  lance  in  rest  and  floating  locks, 
upon  a  black  steed  that  was  expelling  fire  through  its 
nostrils.  In  the  diffused  light  of  the  stained  glass  he 
could  distinguish  tapestries  on  the  walls  and  a  deep 
divan  with  flowered  cushions. 

A  woman  arose  from  the  soft  depths  of  this  couch, 
rushing  towards  Ferragut  with  outstretched  arms.  Her 
impulse  was  so  violent  that  it  made  her  collide  with  the 
captain.  Before  the  feminine  embrace  could  close  around 
him  he  saw  a  panting  mouth,  with  avid  teeth,  eyes  tearful 
with  emotion,  a  smile  that  was  a  mixture  of  love  and 
painful  disquietude. 

"You !  .  .  .  You !"  he  stuttered,  springing  back. 

His  legs  trembled  with  a  shudder  of  surprise.  A  cold 
wave  ran  down  his  back. 

"Ulysses !"  sighed  the  woman,  trying  again  to  fold  him 
in  her  arms. 

"You!  .  .  .  YouT  again  repeated  the  sailor  in  a  dull 
voice. 

It  was  Freya. 

He  did  not  know  positively  what  mysterious  force 
dictated  his  action.  It  was  perhaps  the  voice  of  his  good 
counselor,  accustomed  to  speak  in  his  brain  in  critical 
instants,  which  now  asserted  itself.  .  .  .  He  saw  instan- 
taneously a  ship  that  was  exploding  and  his  son  blown 
to  pieces. 

"Ah  .  .  .  tall" 

He  raised  his  robust  arm  with  his  fist  clenched  like  a 
mace.  The  voice  of  prudence  kept  on  giving  him  orders. 
"Hard !  .  .  .  No  consideration !  .  .  .  This  female  is  shifty." 
And  he  struck  as  though  his  enemy  were  a  man,  without 
hesitation,  without  pity,  concentrating  all  his  soul  in  his 
fist. 


388  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  hatred  that  he  was  feeling  and  the  recollection  o( 
the  aggressive  resources  of  the  German  woman  made, 
him  begin  a  second  blow,  fearing  an  attack  from  her 
and  wishing  to  repel  it  before  it  could  be  made.  .  .  .  But 
he  stopped  with  his  arm  raised. 

"Ay  de  mi!  ..." 

The  woman  had  uttered  a  child-like  wail,  stagger- 
ing, swaying  upon  her  feet,  with  arms  drooping,  without 
any  attempt  at  defense  whatever.  .  .  .  She  reeled  from 
side  to  side  as  though  she  were  drunk.  Her  knees 
doubled  under  her,  and  she  fell  with  the  limpness  of  a 
bundle  of  clothes,  her  head  first  striking  against  the 
cushions  of  the  divan.  The  rest  of  her  body  remained 
like  a  rag  on  the  rug. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  interrupted  from  time  to 
time  by  groans  of  pain.  Freya  was  moaning  with  closed 
eyes,  without  coming  out  of  her  inertia. 

The  sailor,  scowling  with  a  tragic  ugliness,  and  trans- 
ported with  rage,  remained  immovable,  looking  grimly 
at  the  fallen  creature.  He  was  satisfied  with  his  bru- 
tality ;  it  had  been  an  opportune  relief ;  he  could  breathe 
better.  At  the  same  time  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
ashamed  of  himself.  "What  have  you  done,  you  cow- 
ard? .  .  ."  For  the  first  time  in  his  existence  he  had 
struck  a  woman. 

He  raised  his  aching  right  hand  to  his  eyes.  One  of 
his  fingers  was  bleeding.  Perhaps  it  had  become  hooked 
in  her  earrings,  perhaps  a  pin  at  her  breast  had  scratched 
it.  He  sucked  the  blood  from  the  deep  scratch,  and  then 
forgot  the  wound  in  order  to  gaze  again  at  the  body 
outstretched  at  his  feet. 

Little  by  little  he  was  becoming  accustomed  to  the 
diffused  light  of  the  room.  He  was  already  beginning 
to  see  objects  clearly.  His  glance  rested  upon  Freya 
with  a  look  of  mingled  hatred  and  remorse. 


IN  BARCELONA  389 

Her  head,  sunk  in  the  cushions,  presented  a  pitiful 
profile.  She  appeared  much  older,  as  though  her  age  had 
been  doubled  by  her  tears.  The  brutal  blow  had  made 
her  freshness  and  her  marvelous  youth  flit  away  with 
doleful  suddenness.  Her  half-opened  eyes  were  en- 
circled with  temporary  wrinkles.  Her  nose  had  taken 
on  the  livid  sharpness  of  the  dead;  her  great  mass  of 
hair,  reddening  under  the  blow,  was  disheveled  in 
golden,  undulating  tangles.  Something  black  was  wind- 
ing through  it  making  streaks  upon  the  silk  of  the 
cushion.  It  was  the  blood  that  was  dribbling  between 
the  heraldic  flowers  of  the  embroidery, — blood  flowing 
from  the  hidden  forehead,  being  absorbed  by  the  dryness 
of  the  soft  material. 

Upon  making  this  discovery,  Ferragut  felt  his  shame 
increasing.  He  took  one  step  over  the  extended  body, 
seeking  the  door.  Why  was  he  staying  there?  .  .  .  All 
that  he  had  to  do  was  already  done;  all  that  he  could 
say  was  already  said. 

"Do  not  go,  Ulysses,"  sighed  a  plaintive  voice.  "Lis- 
ten to  me !  ...  It  concerns  your  life." 

The  fear  that  he  might  get  away  made  her  pull  herself 
together  with  dolorous  groans  and  this  movement  ac- 
celerated the  flow  of  blood.  .  .  .  The  pillow  continued 
drinking  it  in  like  a  thirsty  meadow. 

An  irresistible  compassion  like  that  which  he  might  feel 
for  any  stranger  abandoned  in  the  midst  of  the  street, 
made  the  sailor  draw  back,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  tall  crystal 
vase  which  stood  upon  the  floor  filled  with  flowers. 
With  a  bang  he  scattered  over  the  carpet  all  the  spring- 
time bouquet,  arranged  a  little  while  before  by  feminine 
hands  with  the  feverishness  of  one  who  counts  the 
minutes  and  lives  on  hope. 

He  moistened  his  handkerchief  in  the  water  of  the 
vase  and  knelt  down  beside  Freya,  raising  her  head 


390  MARE  NOSTRUM 

upon  the  cushion.  She  let  the  wound  be  washed  with 
the  abandon  of  a  sick  creature,  fixing  upon  her  aggressor 
a  pair  of  imploring  eyes,  opening  now  for  the  first 
time. 

When  the  blood  ceased  to  flow,  forming  on  the  temple 
a  red,  coagulated  spot,  Ferragut  tried  to  raise  her  up. 

"No;  leave  me  so,"  she  murmured.  "I  prefer  to  be 
at  your  feet.  I  am  your  bondslave  .  .  .  your  plaything. 
Beat  me  more  if  it  will  appease  your  wrath." 

She  wished  to  insist  upon  her  humility,  offering  her 
lips  with  the  timid  kiss  of  a  grateful  slave. 

"Ah,  no!  .  .  .  No!" 

To  avoid  this  caress  Ulysses  stood  up  suddenly.  He 
again  felt  intense  hatred  toward  this  woman,  who  little  by 
little  was  appealing  to  his  senses.  Upon  stopping  the 
flow  of  blood  his  compassion  had  become  extinguished. 

She,  guessing  his  thoughts,  felt  obliged  to  speak. 

"Do  with  me  what  you  will.  ...  I  shall  not  complain. 
You  are  the  first  man  who  has  ever  struck  me.  .  .  .  And 
I  have  not  defended  myself!  I  shall  not  defend  myself 
though  you  strike  me  again.  .  .  .  Had  it  been  any  one 
else,  I  would  have  replied  blow  for  blow;  but  you!  .  .  . 
I  have  done  you  so  much  wrong !  .  .  ." 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  kneeling  before  him 
in  a  supplicating  attitude  with  her  body  resting  upon  her 
heels.  She  reached  out  her  arms  while  speaking  with 
a  monotonous  and  sorrowful  voice,  like  the  specters  in 
the  apparitions  of  the  theater. 

"I  have  hestitated  a  long  time  before  seeing  you,"  she 
continued.  "I  feared  your  wrath;  I  was  sure  that  in 
the  first  moment  you  would  let  yourself  be  overpowered 
by  your  anger  and  I  was  terrified  at  the  thought  of  the 
interview.  ...  I  have  spied  upon  you  ever  since  I  knew 
that  you  were  in  Barcelona;  I  have  waited  near  your 
home;  many  times  I  have  seen  you  through  the  doorway 


IN  BARCELONA  391 

of  a  cafe,  and  I  have  taken  my  pen  to  write  to  you.  But 
I  feared  that  you  would  not  come,  upon  recognizing  my 
handwriting,  or  that  you  would  pay  no  attention  to  a 
letter  in  another  hand.  .  .  .  This  morning  in  the  Rambla 
I  could  no  longer  contain  myself.  And  so  I  sent  that 
woman  to  you  and  I  have  passed  some  cruel  hours 
fearing  that  you  would  not  come.  .  .  .  At  last  I  see  you 
and  your  violence  makes  no  difference  to  me.  Thank 
you,  thank  you  many  times  for  having  come !" 

Ferragut  remained  motionless  with  distracted  glance, 
as  though  he  did  not  hear  her  voice. 

"It  was  necessary  to  see  you,"  she  continued.  "It 
concerns  your  very  existence.  You  have  set  yourself  in 
opposition  to  a  tremendous  power  that  can  crush  you. 
Your  ruin  is  decided  upon.  You  are  one  lone  man  and 
you  have  awakened  the  suspicion,  without  knowing  it,  of 
a  world-wide  organization.  .  .  .  The  blow  has  not  yet 
fallen  upon  you,  but  it  is  going  to  fall  at  any  moment, 
perhaps  this  very  day ;  I  cannot  find  out  all  about  it.  ... 
For  this  reason  it  was  necessary  to  see  you  in  order  that 
you  should  put  yourself  on  the  defensive,  in  order  that 
you  should  flee,  if  necessary." 

The  captain,  smiling  scornfully,  shrugged  his  shoulders 
as  he  always  did  when  people  spoke  to  him  of  danger, 
and  counseled  prudence.  Besides,  he  couldn't  believe  a 
single  thing  that  woman  said. 

"It's  a  lie  !"  he  said  dully.    "It's  all  a  lie !  .  .  . 

*No,  Ulysses :  listen  to  me.  You  do  not  know  the 
interest  that  you  inspire  in  me.  You  are  the  only  man 
that  I  have  ever  loved.  .  .  .  Do  not  smile  at  me  in  that 
way:  your  incredulity  terrifies  me.  .  .  .  Remorse  is  now 
united  to  my  poor  love.  I  have  done  you  so  much 
wrong!  ...  I  hate  all  men.  I  long  to  cause  them  all 
the  harm  that  I  can;  but  there  exists  one  exception: 
you !  .  .  .  All  my  desires  of  happiness  are  for  you.  My 


392  MARE  NOSTRUM 

dreams  of  the  future  always  have  you  as  the  central 
personage.  .  .  .  Do  you  want  me  to  remain  indifferent 
upon  seeing  you  in  danger?  .  .  .  No,  I  am  not  lying.  .  .  . 
Everything  that  I  tell  you  this  afternoon  is  the  truth :  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  lie  to  you.  It  distresses  me  so  that 
my  artifices  and  my  falsity  should  have  brought  trouble 
upon  you.  .  .  .  Strike  me  again,  treat  me  as  the  worst  of 
women,  but  believe  what  I  tell  you ;  follow  my  counsel." 

The  sailor  persisted  disdainfully  in  his  indifferent 
attitude.  His  hands  were  trembling  impatiently.  He 
was  going  away.  He  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more.  .  .  . 
Had  she  hunted  him  out  just  to  frighten  him  with 
imaginary  dangers?  .  .  . 

"What  have  you  done,  Ulysses?  .  .  .  What  have  you 
done?"  Freya  kept  saying  desperately. 

She  knew  all  that  had  occurred  in  the  port  of 
Marseilles,  and  she  also  knew  well  the  infinite  number  of 
agents  that  were  working  for  the  greater  glory  of 
Germany.  Von  Kramer,  from  his  prison,  had  made 
known  the  name  of  his  informant.  She  lamented  the 
captain's  vehement  frankness. 

"I  understand  your  hatred;  you  cannot  fcrget  the 
torpedoing  of  the  Calif ornian.  .  .  .  But  you  should  have 
denounced  von  Kramer  without  letting  him  suspect  from 
whom  the  accusation  came.  .  .  .  You  have  acted  like  a 
madman ;  yours  is  an  impulsive  character  that  does  nof 
fear  the  morrow." 

Ulysses  made  a  scornful  gesture.  He  did  not  like 
subterfuges  and  treachery.  His  way  of  doing  was  the 
better  one.  The  only  thing  that  he  lamented  was  that 
that  assassin  of  the  sea  might  still  be  living,  not  having 
been  able  to  kill  him  with  his  own  hands. 

"Perhaps  he  may  not  be  living  still,"  she  continued. 
"The  French  Council  of  War  has  condemned  him  to 
death.  We  do  not  know  whether  the  sentence  has  been 


IN  BARCELONA  393 

carried  out ;  but  they  are  going  to  shoot  him  any  moment, 
and  every  one  in  our  circle  knows  that  you  are  the  true 
author  of  his  misfortune." 

She  became  terrified  upon  thinking  of  the  accumulated 
hatred  brought  about  by  this  deed,  and  upon  the 
approaching  vengeance.  In  Berlin  the  name  of  Ferragut 
was  the  object  of  special  attention;  in  every  nation  of 
the  earth,  the  civilian  battalions  of  men  and  women 
engaged  in  working  for  Germany's  triumph  were 
repeating  his  name  at  this  moment.  The  commanders 
of  the  submarines  were  passing  along  information  regard- 
ing his  ship  and  his  person.  He  had  dared  to  attack  the 
greatest  empire  in  the  world.  He,  one  lone  man,  a 
simple  merchant  captain,  depriving  the  kaiser  of  one  of 
his  most  valiant,  valuable  servants! 

"What  have  you  done,  Ulysses?  .  .  .  What  have  you 
done?"  she  wailed  again. 

And  Ferragut  began  to  recognize  in  her  voice  a 
genuine  interest  in  his  person,  a  terrible  fear  of  the 
dangers  which  she  believed  were  threatening  him. 

"Here,  in  your  very  own  country,  their  vengeance  will 
overtake  you.  Flee!  I  don't  know  where  you  can  go 
to  get  rid  of  them,  but  believe  me.  .  .  .  Flee !" 

The  sailor  came  out  of  his  scornful  indifference. 
Anger  was  lending  a  hostile  gleam  to  his  glance.  He 
was  furious  to  think  that  those  foreigners  could  pursue 
him  in  his  own  country;  it  was  as  though  they  were 
attacking  him  beside  his  own  hearth.  National  pridfc 
augmented  his  wrath. 

"Let  them  come,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to  see  them  this 
very  day." 

And  he  looked  around,  clenching  his  fists  as  though 
these  innumerable  and  unknown  enemies  were  about  to 
come  out  from  the  walls. 

"They    are    also    beginning    to    consider    me    as    an 


394  MARE  NOSTRUM 

enemy/'  continued  the  woman.  "They  do  not  say  so, 
because  it  is  a  common  thing  with  us  to  hide  our 
thoughts;  but  I  suspect  the  coldness  that  is  surrounding 
me.  .  .  .  The  doctor  knows  that  I  love  you  the  same  as 
before,  in  spite  of  the  wrath  that  she  feels  against  you. 
The  others  are  talking  of  your  'treason'  and  I  protest 
because  I  cannot  stand  such  a  lie.  .  .  .  Why  are  you  a 
traitor?  .  .  .  You  are  not  one  of  our  clan.  You  are  a 
father  who  longs  to  avenge  himself.  We  are  the  real 
traitors : — I,  who  entangled  you  in  the  fatal  adventure, — 
they,  who  pushed  me  toward  you,  in  order  to  take 
.advantage  of  your  services." 

Their  life  in  Naples  surged  up  in  her  memory  and  she 
felt  it  necessary  to  explain  her  acts. 

"You  have  not  been  able  to  understand  me.  You  are 
ignorant  of  the  truth.  .  .  .  When  I  met  you  on  the  road 
to  Paestum,  you  were  a  souvenir  of  my  past,  a  fragment 
of  my  youth,  of  the  time  in  which  I  knew  the  doctor 
only  vaguely,  and  was  not  yet  compromised  in  the  service 
of  'information/  .  .  .  From  the  very  beginning  your 
love  and  enthusiasm  made  an  impression  upon  me. 
You  represented  an  interesting  diversion  with  your 
Spanish  gallantry,  waiting  for  me  outside  the  hotel  in 
order  to  besiege  me  with  your  promises  and  vows.  I  was 
greatly  bored  during  the  enforced  waiting  at  Naples. 
You  also  found  yourself  obliged  to  wait,  and  sought  in 
me  an  agreeable  recreation.  .  .  .  One  day  I  came  to 
understand  that  you  truly  were  interesting  me  greatly,  as 
no  other  man  had  ever  interested  me.  ...  I  suspected 
that  I  was  going  to  fall  in  love  with  you/'' 

"It's  a  lie!  .  .  .  It's  a  lie,"  murmured  Ferragut  spite- 
fully. 

"Say  what  you  will,  but  that  was  the  way  of  it.  We 
love  according  to  the  place  and  the  moment.  If  we  had 
met  on  some  other  occasion,  we  might  have  seen  each 


IN  BARCELONA  395 

other  for  a  few  hours,  no  more,  each  following  his  own 
road  without  further  consideration.  We  belong  to 
different  worlds.  .  .  .  But  we  were  mobilized  in  the  same 
country,  oppressed  by  the  tedium  of  waiting,  and  what 
had  to  be  ...  was.  I  am  telling  you  the  entire  truth: 
if  you  could  know  what  it  has  cost  me  to  avoid  you !  .  .  . 

"In  the  mornings,  on  arising  in  the  room  in  my  hotel, 
my  first  motion  was  to  look  through  the  curtains  in  order 
to  convince  myself  that  you  were  waiting  for  me  in  the 
street.  'There  is  my  devoted:  there  is  my  sweetheart !y 
Perhaps  you  had  slept  badly  thinking  about  me,  while  I 
was  feeling  my  soul  reborn  within  me,  the  soul  of  a  girl 
of  twenty,  enthusiastic  and  artless.  .  .  .  My  first  impulse 
was  to  come  down  and  join  you,  going  with  you  along 
the  gulf  shores  like  two  lovers  out  of  a  novel.  Then 
reflection  would  come  to  my  rescue.  My  past  would 
come  tumbling  into  my  mind  like  an  old  bell  fallen  from 
its  tower.  I  had  forgotten  that  past,  and  its  recurrence 
deafened  me  with  its  overwhelming  jangle  vibrating  with 
memories.  'Poor  man !  .  .  .  Into  what  a  world  of  com- 
promises and  entanglements  I  am  going  to  involve  him! 
.  .  .  No!  No!'  And  I  fled  from  you  with  the  cunning 
of  a  mischievous  schoolgirl,  coming  out  from  the  hotel 
when  you  had  gone  off  for  a  few  moments,  at  other  times 
doubling  a  corner  at  the  very  instant  that  you  turned 
your  eyes  away.  ...  I  only  permitted  myself  to  approach 
coldly  and  ironically  when  it  was  impossible  to  avoid 
meeting  you.  .  .  .  And  afterwards,  in  the  doctor's  house, 
I  used  to  talk  about  you,  every  instant,  laughing  with 
her  over  these  romantic  gallantries." 

Ferragut  was  listening  gloomily,  but  with  growing 
concentration.  He  foresaw  the  explanation  of  many 
hitherto  incomprehensible  acts.  A  curtain  was  going  to 
be  withdrawn  from  the  past  showing  everything  behind 
it  in  a  new  light. 


396  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"The  doctor  would  laugh,  but  in  spite  of  my  jesting 
she  would  assure  me  just  the  same:  'You  are  in  love 
with  this  man;  this  Don  Jose  interests  you.  Be  careful, 
Carmen !'  And  the  queer  thing  was  that  she  did  not  take 
amiss  my  infatuation,  especially  when  you  consider  that 
she  was  the  enemy  of  every  passion  that  could  not  be 
made  directly  subservient  to  our  work.  .  .  .  She  told  the 
truth;  I  was  in  love.  I  recognized  it  the  morning  the 
overwhelming  desire  to  go  to  the  Aquarium  took  pos- 
session of  me.  I  had  passed  many  days  without  seeing 
you:  I  was  living  outside  of  the  hotel  in  the  doctor's 
house  in  order  not  to  encounter  my  inamorato.  And  that 
morning  I  got  up  very  sad,  with  one  fixed  thought: 
'Poor  captain!  .  .  .  Let  us  give  him  a  little  happi- 
ness/ I  was  sick  that  day.  .  .  .  Sick  because  of  you! 
Now  I  understood  it  all.  We  saw  each  other  in  the 
Aquarium  and  it  was  I  who  kissed  you  at  the  same 
time  that  I  was  longing  for  the  extermination  of  all 
men.  ...  Of  all  men  except  you !" 

She  made  a  brief  pause,  raising  her  eyes  toward  him 
in  order  to  take  in  the  effect  of  her  words. 

"You  remember  our  luncheon  in  the  restaurant  of 
Vomero;  you  remember  how  I  begged  you  to  go  away, 
leaving  me  to  my  fate.  I  had  a  foreboding  of  the  future. 
I  foresaw  that  it  was  going  to  be  fatal  for  you.  How 
could  I  join  a  direct  and  frank  life  like  yours  to  my 
existence  as  an  adventuress,  mixed  up  in  so  many  uncon- 
fessable  compromises?  .  .  .  But  I  was  in  love  with  you. 
I  wished  to  save  you  by  leaving  you,  and  at  the  same 
time  I  was  afraid  of  not  seeing  you  again.  The  night 
that  you  irritated  me  with  the  fury  of  your  desires  and  I 
stupidly  defended  myself,  as  though  it  were  an  outrage, 
concentrating  on  your  person  the  hatred  which  all  men 
inspire  in  me, — that  night,  alone  in  my  bed,  I  wept.  I 
wept  at  the  thought  that  I  had  lost  you  forever  and  at 


IN  BARCELONA  397 

the  same  time  I  felt  satisfied  with  myself  because  thus  I 
was  freeing  you  from  my  baleful  influence.  .  .  .  Then 
von  Kramer  came.  We  were  in  need  of  a  boat  and  a 
man.  The  doctor  spoke,  proud  of  her  penetration  which 
had  made  her  suspect  in  you  an  available  asset.  They 
gave  me  orders  to  go  in  search  of  you,  to  regain  the 
mastery  over  your  self-control.  My  first  impulse  was  to 
refuse,  thinking  of  your  future.  But  the  sacrifice  was 
sweet;  selfishness  directs  our  actions  .  .  .  and  I  sought 
you!  You  know  the  rest." 

She  became  silent,  remaining  in  a  pensive  attitude,  as 
though  relishing  this  period  of  her  recollection,  the  most 
pleasing  of  her  existence. 

"Upon  going  over  to  the  steamer  for  you/'  she  con- 
tinued a  few  moments  afterward,  "I  understood  just 
what  you  represented  in  my  life.  What  need  I  had  of 
you!  .  .  .  The  doctor  was  preoccupied  with  the  Italian 
events.  I  was  only  counting  the  days,  finding  that  they 
were  passing  by  with  more  slowness  than  the  others. 
One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  'My  adored  sailor,  my 
amorous  shark,  is  going  to  come.  .  .  .  He  is  going  to 
come!'  And  what  came  suddenly,  while  we  were  still 
believing  it  far  away,  was  the  blow  of  the  war,  rudely 
separating  us.  The  doctor  was  cursing  the  Italians, 
thinking  of  Germany;  I  was  cursing  them,  thinking  of 
you,  finding  myself  obliged  to  follow  my  friend,  pre- 
paring for  flight  in  two  hours,  through  fear  of  the 
mob.  .  .  .  My  only  satisfaction  was  in  learning  that  we 
were  coming  to  Spain.  The  doctor  was  promising  herself 
to  do  great  things  here.  ...  I  was  thinking  that  in  no 
place  would  it  be  easier  for  me  to  find  you  again." 

She  had  gained  a  little  more  bodily  strength.  Her 
hands  were  touching  Ferragut's  knees,  longing  to 
embrace  them,  yet  not  daring  to  do  so,  fearing  that  he 


398  MARE  NOSTRUM 

might  repel  her  and  overcome  that  tragic  inertia  which 
permitted  him  to  listen  to  her. 

"When  in  Bilboa  I  learned  of  the  torpedoing  of  the 
Calif  orman  and  of  the  death  of  your  son.  ...  I  shall  not 
talk  about  that;  I  wept,  I  wept  bitterly,  hiding  myself 
from  the  doctor.  From  that  time  on  I  hated  her.  She 
rejoiced  in  the  event,  passing  indifferently  over  your 
name.  You  no  longer  existed  for  her,  because  she  was 
no  longer  able  to  make  use  of  you.  ...  I  wept  for 
you,  for  your  son  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  also  for 
myself,  remembering  my  blame  in  the  matter.  Since  that 
day  I  have  been  another  woman.  .  .  .  Then  we  came  to 
Barcelona  and  I  have  passed  months  and  months  awaiting 
this  moment/' 

Her  former  passion  was  reflected  in  her  eyes.  A 
flicker  of  humble  love  lit  up  her  bruised  countenance. 

"We  established  ourselves  in  this  house  which  belongs 
to  a  German  electrician,  a  friend  of  the  doctor's.  When- 
ever she  went  away  on  a  trip  leaving  me  free,  my  steps 
would  invariably  turn  to  the  harbor.  I  was  waiting  to 
see  your  ship.  My  eyes  followed  the  seamen  sym- 
pathetically, thinking  that  I  could  see  in  all  of  them 
something  of  your  person.  .  .  .  'Some  day  he  will  come/ 
I  would  say  to  myself.  You  know  how  selfish  love  is  1 
I  gradually  forgot  the  death  of  your  son.  .  .  .  Besides,  I 
am  not  the  one  who  is  really  guilty :  there  are  others.  I 
have  been  deceived  just  as  you  have  been.  'He  is  going 
to  come,  and  we  shall  be  happy  again!'  .  .  .  Ay!  If 
this  room  could  speak  ...  if  this  divan  on  which  I  have 
dreamed  so  many  times  could  talk !  .  .  .  I  was  always  ar- 
ranging some  flowers  in  a  vase,  making  believe  that  you 
were  going  to  come.  I  was  always  fixing  myself  up  a  lit- 
tle bit,  imagining  it  was  for  you.  ...  I  was  living  in  your 
country,  and  it  was  natural  that  you  should  come. 
Suddenly  the  paradise  that  I  was  imagining  vanished  into 


IN  BARCELONA  399 

smoke.  We  received  the  news,  I  don't  know  how,  of  Lie- 
imprisonment  of  von  Kramer,  and  that  you  had  been  his- 
accuser.  The  doctor  anathematized  me,  making  me 
responsible  for  everything.  Through  me  she  had  known 
you,  and  that  was  enough  to  make  her  include  me  in  her 
indignation.  All  our  band  began  to  plan  for  your  death, 
longing  to  have  it  accompanied  with  the  most  atrocious 
tortures.  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  interrupted  her.  His  brow  was  furrowed  as 
though  dominated  by  a  tenacious  idea.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he 
was  not  listening  to  her. 

"Where  is  the  doctor?"  ... 

The  tone  of  the  question  was  disquieting.  He  clenched 
his  fists,  looking  around  him  as  though  awaiting  the 
appearance  of  the  imposing  dame.  His  attitude  was  just 
like  that  which  had  accompanied  his  attack  on  Freya. 

"I  don't  know  where  she's  traveling,"  said  his  com- 
panion. "She  is  probably  in  Madrid,  in  San  Sebastian, 
or  in  Cadiz.  She  goes  off  very  frequently.  She  has 
friends  everywhere.  .  .  .  And  I  have  ventured  to  ask 
you  here  simply  because  I  am  alone." 

And  she  described  the  life  that  she  was  leading  in  this 
retreat.  For  the  time  being  her  former  protector  was 
letting  her  remain  in  inaction,  abstaining  from  giving  her 
any  work  whatever.  She  was  doing  everything  herself, 
avoiding  all  intermediaries.  What  had  happened  to  von 
Kramer  had  made  her  so  jealous  and  suspicious  that 
when  she  needed  aids,  she  admitted  only  her  compatriots 
living  in  Barcelona. 

A  ferocious  and  determined  band,  made  up  of  refugees 
from  the  South  American  republics,  parasites  from  the 
coast  cities  or  vagabonds  from  the  inland  forests,  had 
grouped  itself  around  her.  At  their  head,  as  message- 
bearer  for  the  doctor,  was  Karl,  the  secretary  that  Ferra- 


4oo  MARE  NOSTRUM 

gut  had  seen  in  the  great  old  house  of  the  district  of 
Chiaja. 

This  man,  in  spite  of  his  oily  aspect,  had  several 
bloody  crimes  in  his  life  history.  He  was  a  worthy 
superintendent  of  the  group  of  adventurers  inflamed  by 
patriotic  enthusiasm  who  were  forwarding  supplies  to 
the  submarines  in  the  Spanish  Mediterranean.  They 
all  knew  Captain  Ferragut,  because  of  the  affair  at 
Marseilles,  and  they  were  talking  about  his  person  with 
gloomy  reticence. 

"Through  them  I  learned  of  your  arrival,"  she  con- 
tinued. "They  are  spying  upon  you,  waiting  for  a 
favorable  moment.  Who  knows  if  they  have  not  already 
followed  you  here?  .  .  .  Ulysses,  flee;  your  life  is  seri- 
ously threatened." 

The  captain  again  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an 
expression  of  disgust. 

"Flee,  I  repeat  it!  ...  And  if  you  can,  if  I  arouse 
in  you  a  little  compassion,  if  you  are  not  completely 
indifferent  to  me  .  .  .  take  me  with  you !  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  began  to  wonder  if  all  this  preamble  was 
merely  a  prelude  to  this  final  request.  The  unexpected 
demand  produced  an  impression  of  scandalized  amaze- 
ment. Was  he  to  flee  with  her,  with  the  one  who  had 
done  him  so  much  harm?  .  .  .  Again  unite  his  life  to 
hers,  knowing  her  as  he  now  knew  her!  .  .  . 

The  proposition  was  so  absurd  that  the  captain  smiled 
sardonically. 

"I  am  just  as  much  in  danger  as  you  are,"  continued 
Freya  with  a  despairing  accent.  "I  do  not  know  exactly 
what  the  danger  is  that  threatens  me,  nor  whence  it  may 
come.  But  I  suspect  it,  I  foresee  it  hanging  over  my 
head.  ...  I  am  of  absolutely  no  use  to  them  now ;  I  no 
longer  have  their  confidence,  and  I  know  too  many  things. 
Since  I  possess  too  many  secrets  for  them  to  give  me  up, 


IN  BARCELONA  401 

leaving  me  in  peace,  they  have  agreed  to  suppress  me ;  I 
am  sure  of  that.  I  can  read  it  in  the  eyes  of  the  one  who 
was  my  friend  and  protector.  .  .  .  You  cannot  abandon 
me,  Ulysses.  You  will  not  desire  my  death." 

Ferragut  waxed  indignant  before  these  supplications, 
finally  breaking  his  disdainful  silence. 

"Comedienne!  .  .  .  All  a  lie!  ...  Inventions  to  en- 
tangle yourself  with  me,  making  me  intervene  again  in 
the  network  of  your  life,  compromising  me  again  in  your 
work  of  detestable  surveillance!  ..." 

He  was  now  taking  the  right  path.  His  desire  for 
vengeance  had  placed  him  among  Germany's  adversaries. 
He  was  lamenting  his  former  blindness  and  was  satisfied 
with  his  new  interests.  He  was  making  no  secret  of  his 
conduct.  He  was  serving  the  Allies. 

"And  that  is  the  reason  you  are  hunting  me  up ;  that  is 
the  reason  that  you  have  arranged  this  interview, 
probably  at  the  instigation  of  your  friend,  the  doctor. 
You  wish  to  employ  me  for  a  second  time- as  the  secret 
instrument  of  your  espionage.  'Captain  Ferragut  is  such 
an  enamored  simpleton/  you  have  said  to  one  another. 
'We  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  make  an  appeal  to  his 
chivalry.  .  .  /  And  you  wish  to  live  with  me,  perhaps  to 
accompany  me  on  my  voyages,  to  follow  my  existence  in 
order  to  reveal  my  secrets  to  your  compatriots  that  I 
may  again  appear  as  a  traitor.  Ah,  you  hussy !  .  .  . " 

This  supposed  treason  again  aroused  his  homicidal 
wrath.  He  raised  his  arm  and  foot,  and  was  about  to 
strike  and  crush  the  kneeling  woman.  But  her  passive 
humiliation,  her  complete  lack  of  resistance,  stopped 
him. 

"No,  Ulysses  .  .  .  listen  to  me !" 

She  tried  her  utmost  to  prove  her  sincerity.  She  was 
afraid  of  her  own  people;  she  could  see  them  now  in  a 
light,  and  they  filled  her  with  horror.  Her  manner 


402  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  looking  at  things  had  changed  radically.  Her  remorse, 
on  thinking  of  what  she  had  done,  was  making  her  a 
martyr.  Her  conscience  was  beginning  to  feel  the 
wholesome  transformation  of  repentant  women  who 
were  formerly  great  sinners.  How  could  she  wash  her 
soul  of  her  past  crimes  ?  .  .  .  She  had  not  even  the  con- 
solation of  that  patriotic  faith,  bloody  and  ferocious 
though  it  was,  which  inflamed  the  doctor  and  her 
assistants. 

She  had  been  reflecting  a  great  deal.  For  her  there 
were  no  longer  Germans,  English,  nor  French ;  there  only 
existed  men;  men  with  mothers,  with  wives,  with 
daughters.  And  her  woman's  soul  was  horrified  at  the 
thought  of  the  combats  and  the  killings.  She  hated  war. 
She  had  experienced  her  first  remorse  upon  learning  of 
the  death  of  Ferragut's  son. 

"Take  me  with  you,"  she  urged.  "If  you  do  not 
take  me  out  of  my  world  I  shall  not  know  how  to  get 
away  from  it.  ...  I  am  poor.  In  these  last  years,  the 
doctor  has  supported  me;  I  do  not  know  any  way  of 
earning  my  living  and  I  am  accustomed  to  living  well. 
Poverty  inspires  me  with  greater  fear  than  death.  You 
will  be  able  to  maintain  me;  I  will  accept  of  you  what- 
ever you  wish  to  give  me;  I  will  be  your  handmaiden. 
On  a  boat  they  must  need  the  care  and  well-ordered 
supervision  of  a  woman.  .  .  .  Life  locks  its  doors  against 
me ;  I  am  alone." 

The  captain  smiled  with  cruel  irony. 

"I  divine  what  your  smile  means.  I  know  what  you 
wish  to  say  to  me.  ...  I  can  see  myself;  you  believe 
without  doubt  that  such  has  been  my  former  life.  No, 
.  .  .  no!  You  are  mistaken.  I  have  not  been  that. 
There  has  to  be  a  special  predisposition,  a  certain  talent 
for  feigning  what  I  do  not  feel.  ...  I  have  tried  to  sell 
myself,  and  I  cannot,  I  cannot  avail  myself  of  that.  I 


IN  BARCELONA  403 

embitter  the  life  of  men  when  they  do  not  interest  me ; 
I  am  their  adversary.  I  hate  them  and  they  flee  from 
me." 

But  the  sailor  prolonged  his  atrociously  sinister  smile. 

"It's  a  lie,"  he  said  again,  "all  a  lie.  Make  no  further 
effort.  .  .  .  You  will  not  convince  me." 

As  though  suddenly  reanimated  with  new  force,  she 
rose  to  her  feet: — her  face  on  a  level  with  Ferragut's 
eyes.  He  saw  her  left  temple  with  the  torn  skin;  the 
spot  caused  by  the  blow  extended  around  one  eye, 
reddened  and  swollen.  On  contemplating  his  barbarous 
handiwork,  remorse  again  tormented  him. 

"Listen,  Ulysses ;  you  do  not  know  my  true  existence. 
I  have  always  lied  to  you;  I  have  eluded  all  your 
investigations  in  our  happy  days.  I  wished  to  keep  my 
former  life  a  secret  ...  to  forget  it.  Now  I  must  tell 
you  the  truth,  the  actual  truth,  just  as  though  I  were 
going  to  die.  When  you  know  it,  you  will  be  less  cruel." 

But  her  listener  did  not  wish  to  hear  it.  He  protested 
in  advance  with  a  ferocious  incredulity. 

"Lies!  .  .  .  new  lies!  I  wonder  when  you  will  ever 
stop  your  inventions !" 

"I  am  not  a  German  woman,"  she  continued  without 
listening  to  him.  "Neither  is  my  name  Freya  Talberg. 
...  It  is  my  nombre  de  guerre,  my  name  as  an  adven- 
turess. Talberg  was  the  professor  who  accompanied  me 
to  the  Andes,  and  who  was  not  my  husband,  either.  .  .  . 
My  true  name  is  Beatrice.  .  .  .  My  mother  was  an  Ital- 
ian, a  Florentine ;  my  father  was  from  Trieste." 

This  revelation  did  not  interest  Ferragut. 

"One  fraud  more!"  he  said.  "Another  novel!  .  .  . 
Keep  on  making  them  up." 

The  woman  was  in  despair.  She  raised  her  hands 
above  her  head,  twisting  the  interlaced  fingers.  Fresh 
tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes. 


4o4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Ay!  How  can  I  succeed  in  making  you  believe  me  ? 
.  What  oath  can  I  take  to  convince  you  that  I  am 
telling  you  the  truth  ?  .  .  ." 

The  captain's  impassive  air  gave  her  to  understand  that 
all  such  extremes  would  be  unavailing.  There  was  no 
oath  that  could  possibly  convince  him.  Even  though  she 
should  tell  the  truth,  he  would  not  believe  her. 

She  went  on  with  her  story,  not  wishing  to  protest 
against  this  impassable  wall. 

"My  father  also  was  of  Italian  origin  but  was 
Austrian  because  of  the  place  of  his  birth.  .  .  .  Further- 
more, the  Germanic  empires  always  inspired  him  with  a 
blind  enthusiasm.  He  was  among  those  who  detest  their 
native  land,  and  see  all  the  virtues  in  the  northern  people. 

"Inventor  of  marvelous  business  schemes,  financial 
promoter  of  colossal  enterprises,  he  had  passed  his  ex- 
istence besieging  the  directors  of  the  great  banking 
establishments  and  having  interviews  in  the  lobbies  of  the 
government  departments.  Eternally  on  the  eve  of  sur- 
prising1 combinations  that  were  bound  to  bring  him 
dozens  of  millions,  he  had  always  lived  in  Juxurious 
poverty,  going  from  hotel  to  hotel — always  the  best — 
with  his  wife  and  his  only  daughter. 

"You  know  nothing  about  such  a  life,  Ulysses;  you 
come  from  a  tranquil  and  well-to-do  family.  Your 
people  have  never  known  existence  in  the  Palace  Hotels, 
nor  have  you  known  difficulties  in  meeting  the  monthly 
account,  managing  to  have  it  included  with  those  of  the 
former  months  with  an  unlimited  credit." 

As  a  child  she  had  seen  her  mother  weeping  in  their 
extravagant  hotel  apartment  while  the  father  was  talking 
with  the  aspect  of  an  inspired  person,  announcing  that 
the  next  week  he  was  going  to  clear  a  million  dollars.  The 
wife,  convinced  by  the  eloquence  of  her  remarkable 
husband,  would  finally  dry  her  tears,  powder  her  face, 


IN  BARCELONA  405 

and  adorn  herself  with  her  pearls  and  her  blonde  laces 
of  problematic  value.  Then  she  would  descend  to  the 
magnificent  hall,  filled  with  perfumes,  with  the  hum  of 
conversation  and  the  discreet  wailings  of  the  violins,  in 
order  to  take  tea  with  her  friends  in  the  hotel, — formida- 
ble millionaires  from  the  two  hemispheres  who  vaguely 
suspected  the  existence  of  an  infirmity  known  as  poverty, 
but  incapable  of  imagining  that  it  might  attack  persons 
of  their  own  world. 

Meanwhile  the  little  girl  used  fo  play  in  the  hotel 
garden  of  the  Palace  Hotel  with  other  children  dressed 
up  and  adorned  like  luxurious  and  fragile  dolls,  each  one 
worth  many  millions. 

"From  my  childhood,"  continued  Freya,  "I  had  been  a 
companion  of  women  who  are  now  celebrated  for  their 
riches  in  New  York,  Paris,  and  in  London.  I  have  been 
on  familiar  terms  with  great  heiresses  that  are  to-day, 
through  their  marriages,  duchesses  and  even  princesses 
of  the  blood  royal.  Many  of  them  have  since  passed  by 
me,  without  recognizing  me,  and  I  have  said  nothing, 
knowing  that  the  equality  of  childhood  is  no  more  than  a 
vague  recollection.  .  .  ." 

Thus  she  had  grown  into  womanhood.  A  few  of  her 
father's  casual  bargains  had  permitted  them  to  continue 
this  existence  of  brilliant  and  expensive  poverty.  The 
promoter  had  considered  such  environment  indispensable 
for  his  future  negotiations.  Life  in  the  most  expensive 
hotels,  an  automobile  by  the  month,  gowns  designed  by 
the  greatest  modistes  for  his  wife  and  daughter,  sum- 
mers at  the  most  fashionable  resorts,  winter-skating  in 
Switzerland, — all  these  luxuries  were  for  him  but  a  kind 
of  uniform  of  respectability  that  kept  him  in  the  world 
of  the  powerful,  permitting  him  to  enter  everywhere. 

"This  existence  molded  me  forever,  and  has  influenced 
the  rest  of  my  life.  Dishonor,  death,  anything  is  to  me 


406  MARE  NOSTRUM 

preferable    to   poverty.  ...  I,    who   have   no    fear    of 
danger,  become  a  coward  at  the  mere  thought  of  that !" 

The  mother  died,  credulous  and  sensuous,  worn  out 
with  expecting  a  solid  fortune  that  never  arrived.  The 
daughter  continued  with  her  father,  becoming  the  type  of 
young  woman  who  lives  among  men  from  hotel  to  hotel, 
always  somewhat  masculine  in  her  attitude; — a  half-way 
virgin  who  knows  everything,  is  not  frightened  at  any- 
thing, guards  ferociously  the  integrity  of  her  sex,  calcu- 
lating just  what  it  may  be  worth,  and  adoring  wealth  as 
the  most  powerful  divinity  on  earth. 

Finding  herself  upon  her  father's  death  with  no  other 
fortune  than  her  gowns  and  a  few  artistic  gems  of  scant 
value,  she  had  coldly  decided  upon  her  destiny. 

"In  our  world  there  is  no  other  virtue  than  that  of 
money.  The  girls  of  the  people  surrender  themselves  less 
easily  than  a  young  woman  accustomed  to  luxury  having 
as  her  only  fortune  some  knowledge  of  the  piano,  of 
dancing,  and  a  few  languages.  .  .  .  We  yield  our  body 
as  though  fulfilling  a  material  function,  without  shame 
and  without  regret.  It  is  a  simple  matter  of  business. 
The  only  thing  that  matters  is  to  preserve  the  former  life 
with  all  its  conveniences  .  .  .  not  to  come  down." 

She  passed  hastily  over  her  recollection  of  this  period 
of  her  existence.  An  old  acquaintance  of  her  father,  an 
old  trader  of  Vienna,  had  been  the  first.  Then  she  felt 
romantic  flutterings  which  even  the  coldest  and  most 
positive  women  do  not  escape.  She  believed  that  she 
had  fallen  in  love  with  a  Dutch  officer,  a  blonde  Apollo 
who  used  to  skate  with  her  in  Saint  Moritz.  This  had 
been  her  only  husband.  Finally  she  had  become  bored 
with  the  colonial  drowsiness  of  Batavia  and  had  returned 
to  Europe,  breaking  off  her  marriage  in  order  to  renew  '•• 
her  life  in  the  great  hotels,  passing  the  winter  season  at 
the  most  luxurious  resorts. 


IN  BARCELONA  407 

"Ay,  money !  .  .  .  In  no  social  plane  was  its  power  so 
evident  as  that  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  dwell.  In 
the  Palace  Hotels  she  had  met  women  of  soldierly  aspect 
and  common  hands,  smoking  at  all  hours,  with  their  feet 
up  and  the  white  triangle  of  their  petticoats  stretched 
over  the  seat.  They  were  like  the  prostitutes  waiting  at 
the  doors  of  their  huts.  How  were  they  ever  permitted 
to  live  there!  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  the  men  bowed  before 
them  like  slaves,  or  followed  as  suppliants  these  crea- 
tures who  talked  with  unction  of  the  millions  inherited 
from  their  fathers,  of  their  formidable  wealth  of  indus- 
trial origin  which  had  enabled  them  to  buy  noble  hus- 
bands and  then  give  themselves  up  to  their  natural  tastes 
as  fast,  coarse  women. 

"I  never  had  any  luck.  ...  I  am  too  haughty  for  that 
kind  of  thing.  Men  find  me  ill-humored,  argumentative, 
and  nervous.  Perhaps  I  was  born  to  be  the  mother  of  a 
family.  .  .  .  Who  knows  but  what  I  might  have  been 
otherwise  if  I  had  lived  in  your  country  ?" 

Her  announcement  of  her  religious  veneration  for 
money  took  on  an  accent  of  hate.  Poor  and  well- 
educated  girls,  if  afraid  of  the  misery  of  poverty,  had 
no  other  recourse  than  prostitution.  They  lacked  a 
dowry, — that  indispensable  requisite  in  many  civilized 
families  for  honorable  marriage  and  home-making. 

Accursed  poverty!  ...  It  had  weighed  upon  her  life 
like  a  fatality.  The  men  who  had  appeared  good  at 
first  afterwards  became  poisoned,  turning  into  egoists 
and  wretches.  Doctor  Talberg,  on  returning  from 
America,  had  abandoned  her  in  order  to  marry  a  young 
and  rich  woman,  the  daughter  of  a  trader,  a  senator  from 
Hamburg.  Others  had  equally  exploited  her  youth, 
taking  their  share  of  her  gayety  and  beauty  only  to 
marry,  later,  women  who  had  merely  the  attractiveness 
of  a  great  fortune. 


4o8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

She  had  finally  come  to  hate  them  all,  desiring  their 
extermination,  exasperated  at  the  very  thought  that  she 
needed  them  to  live  and  could  never  free  herself  from  this 
slavery.  Trying  to  be  independent,  she  had  taken  up 
the  stage. 

"I  have  danced.  I  have  sung ;  but  my  successes  were 
always  because  I  was  a  woman.  Men  followed  after 
me,  desiring  the  female,  and  ridiculing  the  actress. 
Besides — the  life  behind  the  scenes!  ...  A  white-slave 
market  with  a  name  on  the  play-bills.  .  .  .  What  ex- 
ploitation! .  .  ." 

The  desire  of  freeing  herself  from  all  this  had  led  her 
to  make  friends  with  the  doctor,  accepting  her  proposi- 
tions. It  seemed  to  her  more  honorable  to  serve  a  great 
nation,  to  be  a  secret  functionary,  laboring  in  the  shadow 
for  its  grandeur.  Besides,  at  the  beginning  she  was 
fascinated  by  the  novelty  of  the  work,  the  adventures  on 
risky  missions,  the  proud  consideration  that  with  her 
espionage  she  was  weaving  the  web  of  the  future, 
preparing  the  history  of  time  to  come. 

Here  also  she  had,  from  the  very  first,  stumbled  upon 
sexual  slavery.  Her  beauty  was  an  instrument  for 
sounding  the  depths  of  consciences,  a  key  for  opening 
secrets ;  and  this  servitude  had  turned  out  worse  than  the 
former  ones,  on  account  of  its  being  irremediable, — she 
had  tried  to  divorce  herself  from  her  life  of  tantalizing 
tourist  and  theatrical  woman;  but  whoever  enters  into 
the  secret  service  can  nevermore  go  from  it.  She  learns 
too  many  things ;  slowly  she  gains  a  comprehension  of  im- 
portant mysteries.  The  agent  becomes  a  slave  of  her 
functions;  she  is  confined  within  them  as  a  prisoner, 
and  with  every  new  act  adds  a  new  stone  to  the  wall  that 
is  separating  her  from  liberty. 

"You  know  the  rest  of  my  life,"  she  continued.  'The 
obligation  of  obeying  the  doctor,  of  seducing  men  in  order 


IN  BARCELONA  409 

to  snatch  their  secrets  from  them,  made  me  hate  them 
with  a  deadly  aggressiveness.  .  .  .  But  you  came.  You, 
who  are  so  good  and  generous !  You  who  sought  me 
with  the  enthusiastic  simplicity  of  a  growing  boy,  making 
me  turn  back  a  page  in  my  life,  as  though  I  were  still  only 
in  my  teens  and  being  courted  for  the  first  time !  .  .  . 
Besides,  you  are  not  a  selfish  person.  You  gave  with 
noble  enthusiasm.  I  believe  that  if  we  had  known  each 
other  in  our  early  youth  you  would  never  have  deserted 
me  in  order  to  make  yourself  rich  by  marrying  some  one 
else.  I  resisted  you  at  first,  because  I  loved  you  and  did 
not  wish  to  do  you  harm.  .  .  .  Afterwards,  the  mandates 
of  my  superiors  and  my  passion  made  me  forget  these 
scruples.  ...  I  gave  myself  up.  I  was  the  'fatal 
woman/  as  always;  I  brought  you  misfortune.  .  .  . 
Ulysses!  My  love!  .  .  .  Let  us  forget;  there  is  no  use 
in  remembering  the  past.  I  know  your  heart  so  well, 
and  finding  myself  in  danger,  I  appeal  to  it.  Save  me ! 
Take  me  with  you !  .  .  ." 

As  she  was  standing  opposite  him,  she  had  only  to 
raise  her  hands  in  order  to  put  them  on  his  shoulders, 
starting  the  beginning  of  an  embrace. 

Ferragut  remained  insensible  to  the  caress.  His  im- 
mobility repelled  these  pleadings.  Freya  had  traveled 
much  through  the  world,  had  gone  through  shameful 
adventures,  and  would  know  how  to  free  herself  by  her 
own  efforts  without  the  necessity  of  complicating  him 
again  in  her  net.  The  story  that  she  had  just  told  was 
nothing  to  him  but  a  web  of  misrepresentations. 

"It  is  all  false,"  he  said  in  a  heavy  voice.  "I  do  not 
believe  you.  I  never  shall  believe  you.  .  .  .  Each  time 
that  we  meet  you  tell  me  a  new  tale.  .  .  .  Who  are  you  ? 
.  .  .  When  do  you  tell  the  truth, — all  the  truth  at  once? 
.  .  .  You  fraud!" 

Insensible    to    his    insults,    she    continued    speaking 


4io  MARE  NOSTRUM 

anxiously  of  her  future,  as  though  perceiving  the 
mysterious  dangers  which  were  surrounding  her. 

"Where  shall  I  go  if  you  abandon  me?  ...  If  I 
remain  in  Spain,  I  continue  under  the  doctor's  domi- 
nation. I  cannot  return  to  the  empires  where  my  life  has 
been  passed;  all  the  roads  are  closed  and  in  those  lands 
my  slavery  would  be  reborn.  .  .  .  Neither  can  I  go  to 
France  or  to  England ;  I  am  afraid  of  my  past.  Any  one 
of  my  former  achievements  would  be  enough  to  make 
them  shoot  me:  I  deserve  nothing  less.  Besides,  the 
vengeance  of  my  own  people  fills  me  with  terror.  I 
know  the  methods  of  the  'service/  when  they  find  it  nec- 
essary to  rid  themselves  of  an  inconvenient  agent  who  is 
in  the  enemy's  territory.  The  'service*  itself  denounces 
him,  voluntarily  making  a  stupid  move  in  order  that  some 
documents  may  go  astray,  sending  a  compromising  card 
with  a  false  address  in  order  that  it  may  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  authorities  of  the  country.  What  shall  I 
do  if  you  do  not  aid  me  ?  .  .  .  Where  can  I  flee  ?  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  decided  to  reply,  moved  to  pity  by  her  desper- 
ation. The  world  was  large.  She  could  go  and  live  in  the 
republics  of  America. 

She  did  not  accept  the  advice.  She  had  had  the  same 
thought,  but  the  uncertain  future  made  her  afraid. 

"I  am  poor :  I  have  scarcely  enough  to  pay  my  traveling 
expenses.  .  .  .  The  'service'  recompenses  well  at  the 
start.  Afterwards  when  it  has  us  surely  in  its  clutches 
because  of  our  past,  it  gives  us  only  what  is  necessary  in 
order  to  live  with  a  certain  freedom.  What  can  I  ever  do 
in  those  lands?  .  .  .  Must  I  pass  the  rest  of  my  existence 
selling  myself  for  bread?  ...  I  will  not  do  it.  I  would 
rather  die  first  I" 

This  desperate  affirmation  of  her  poverty  made 
Ferragut  smile  sarcastically.  He  looked  at  the  necklace 
of  pearls  everlastingly  reposing  on  the  admirable  cushion 


IN  BARCELONA  411 

of  her  bosom,  the  great  emeralds  in  her  ears,  the  diamonds 
that  were  sparkling  coldly  on  her  hands.  She  guessed 
his  thoughts  and  the  idea  of  selling  these  jewels  gave  her 
even  greater  apprehension  than  the  terrors  that  the 
future  involved. 

"You  do  not  know  what  all  this  represents  to  me,"  she 
added.  "It  is  my  uniform,  my  coat-of-arms,  the  safe- 
conduct  that  enables  me  to  sustain  myself  in  the  world 
of  my  youth.  The  women  who  pass  alone  through  this 
world  need  jewels  in  order  to  free  their  pathway  of 
obstructions.  The  managers  of  a  hotel  become  human 
and  smile  before  their  brilliancy.  She  who  possesses 
them  does  not  arouse  suspicion  however  late  she  may  be 
in  paying  the  weekly  account.  ,  .  .  The  employees  at  the 
frontier  become  exceedingly  gallant :  there  is  no  passport 
more  powerful.  The  haughty  ladies  become  more 
cordial  before  their  sparkle,  at  the  tea  hour  in  the  halls 
where  one  knows  nobody.  .  .  .  What  I  have  suffered  in 
order  to  acquire  them!  ...  I  would  be  reduced  to 
hunger  before  I  would  sell  them.  With  them,  I  am 
somebody.  A  person  may  not  have  a  coin  in  her  pocket 
and  yet,  with  these  glittering  vouchers,  may  enter  where 
the  richest  assemble,  living  as  one  of  them." 

She  would  take  no  advice.  She  was  like  a  hungry 
warrior  in  an  enemy's  country  asked  to  surrender  arms 
in  exchange  for  gold.  Once  the  necessity  was  satisfied, 
he  would  become  a  prisoner, — would  be  vilified  and  on  a 
par  with  the  miserable  creatures  who  a  few  hours 
before  were  receiving  his  blows.  She  would  meet  cour- 
ageously all  dangers  and  sufferings  rather  than  lay  aside 
her  helmet  and  shield,  the  symbols  of  her  superior  caste. 
The  gown  more  than  a  year  old,  shabby,  patched  shoes, 
negligee  with  badly  mended  rents,  did  not  distress  her 
in  the  most  trying  moments.  The  important  thing  was 
to  possess  a  stylish  hat  and  to  preserve  a  fur  coat,  a 


4i2  MARE  NOSTRUM 

necklace  of  pearls,  emeralds,  diamonds,— all  the  honor- 
able and  glorious  coat-of-mail  in  which  she  wished  to 
die. 

Her  glance  appeared  to  pity  the  ignorance  of  the 
sailor  in  venturing  to  propose  such  absurdities  to  her. 

"It  is  impossible,  Ulysses.  .  .  .  Take  me  with  you! 
On  the  sea  is  where  I  shall  be  safest.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
the  submarines.  People  imagine  them  as  numerous  and 
close  together  as  the  flagstones  of  a  pavement,  but  only 
one  vessel  in  a  thousand  is  the  victim  of  their  attacks. 
.  .  .  Besides,  with  you  I  fear  nothing ;  if  it  is  our  destiny 
to  perish  on  the  sea,  we  shall  die  together." 

She  became  insinuating  and  enticing,  passing  her  hands 
over  his  shoulders,  pulling  down  his  neck  with  a  passion 
that  was  equal  to  an  embrace.  While  speaking,  her 
mouth  came  near  to  that  of  the  sailor,  the  lips  arched, 
beginning  the  rounding  of  a  caressing  kiss. 

" Would  you  live  so  badly  with  Freya?  .  .  .  Do  you 
no  longer  remember  our  past?  .  .  .  Am  I  now  another 
being?" 

Ulysses  was  remembering  only  too  well  that  past, 
and  began  to  recognize  that  this  memory  was  becoming 
too  vivid.  She,  who  was  following  with  astute  eyes 
the  seductive  memories  whirling  through  his  brain, 
guessed  what  they  were  by  the  contraction  of  his  face. 
And  smiling  trumphantly,  she  placed  her  mouth  against 
his.  She  was  sure  of  her  power.  .  .  .  And  she  repro- 
duced the  kiss  of  the  Aquarium,  that  kiss  which  had  so 
thrilled  the  sailor,  making  his  whole  body  tremble. 

But  when  she  gave  herself  up  with  more  abandon  to 
this  dominating  ascendancy,  she  felt  herself  repelled, 
shot  back  by  a  brutal  hand-thrust  similar  to  the  blow 
that  had  hurled  her  upon  the  cushions  at  the  beginning  of 
the  interview. 


IN  BARCELONA  4*3 

Some  one  had  interposed  between  the  two,  in  spite  of 
their  close  embrace. 

The  captain,  who  was  beginning  to  lose  consciousness 
of  his  acts,  like  a  castaway,  descending  and  descending 
through  the  enchanting  domains  of  limitless  pleasure, 
suddenly  beheld  the  face  of  the  dead  Esteban  with  his 
glassy  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Further  on  he  saw  another 
image,  sad  and  shadowy, — Cinta,  who  was  weeping  as 
though  her  tears  were  the  only  ones  that  should  fall 
upon  the  mutilated  body  of  their  son. 

"Ah,  no!  .  .  .  No!" 

He  himself  was  surprised  at  his  voice.  It  was  the 
roar  of  a  wounded  beast,  the  dry  howling  of  a  desperate 
creature,  writhing  in  torment. 

Freya,  staggering  under  the  rude  push,  again  tried  to 
draw  near  to  him,  enlacing  him  again  in  her  arms,  in 
order  to  repeat  her  imperious  kiss. 

"My  love!  ...  My  love!  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  go  on.  That  tremendous  hand  again 
repelled  her,  but  so  violently  that  her  head  struck  against 
the  cushions  of  the  divan. 

The  door  trembled  with  a  rude  shove  that  made  its  two 
leaves  open  at  the  same  time,  dragging  out  the  bolt  of 
the  lock. 

The  woman,  tenacious  in  her  desires,  rose  up  quickly 
without  noticing  the  pain  of  her  fall.  Nimbleness  only 
could  serve  her  now  that  Ferragut  was  escaping  after 
mechanically  picking  up  his  hat. 

"Ulysses!  .  .  .  Ulysses!  .  .  ." 

Ulysses  was  already  in  the  street, — and  in  the  little 
hallway  various  objects  of  bric-a-brac  that  had  obtruded 
themselves  and  confused  the  fugitive  in  his  blind  flight 
were  still  trembling  and  then  falling  and  breaking  on 
the  floor  with  a  crash. 

Feeling  on  his  forehead  the  sensation  of  the  free  air, 


4i4  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  dangers  to  which  Freya  had  referred  now  surged 
up  in  his  mind.  He  surveyed  the  street  with  a  hostile 
glance.  .  .  .  Nobody!  He  longed  to  meet  the  enemy  of 
whom  that  woman  had  been  speaking,  to  find  vent  for 
that  wrath  which  he  was  feeling  even  against  himself. 
He  was  ashamed  and  furious  at  his  passing  weakness 
which  had  almost  made  him  renew  their  former 
existence. 

In  the  days  following,  he  repeatedly  recalled  the  band 
of  refugees  under  the  doctor's  control.  When  meeting 
German-looking  people  on  the  street,  he  would  glare  at 
them  menacingly.  Was  he  perhaps  one  of  those 
charged  with  killing  him?  .  .  .  Then  he  would  pass  on, 
regretting  his  irritation,  sure  that  they  were  tradesmen 
from  South  America,  apothecaries  or  bank  employees 
undecided  whether  to  return  to  their  home  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ocean,  or  to  await  in  Barcelona  the  always- 
near  triumph  of  their  Emperor. 

Finally  the  captain  began  to  ridicule  Freya's  recom- 
mendations. 

"Just  her  lies !  .  .  .  Inventions  in  order  to  engage  my 
interest  again  and  make  me  take  her  with  me !  Ah,  the 
old  fraud!" 

One  morning,  as  he  was  stepping  out  on  the  deck  of 
his  steamer,  Toni  approached  him  with  a  mysterious  air, 
his  face  assuming  an  ashy  pallor. 

When  they  reached  the  saloon  at  the  stern,  the  mate 
spoke  in  a  low  voice,  looking  around  him. 

The  night  before  he  had  gone  ashore  in  order  to  visit 
the  theater.  All  of  Toni's  literary  tastes  and  his  emo- 
tions were  concentrated  in  vaudeville.  Men  of  tal- 
ent had  never  invented  anything  better.  From  it  he 
used  to  bring  back  the  humming  songs  with  which  he 
beguiled  his  long  watches  on  the  bridge.  Besides,  it  had 
a  feminine  chorus  brilliantly  clad  and  bare-legged,  a 


IN  BARCELONA  415 

prima  donna  rich  in  flesh  and  poor  in  clothes,  a  row  of 
rosy  and  voluptuous  ninepins  that  delighted  the  seamen's 
imagination  without  making  him  forget  the  obligations 
of  fidelity. 

At  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  returning  to  the 
boat  along  the  solitary  entrance  pier,  some  one  had  tried 
to  assassinate  him.  Hearing  footsteps,  he  fancied  that 
he  had  seen  forms  hiding  behind  a  mountain  of  mer- 
chandise. Then  there  had  sounded  three  reports,  three 
revolver  shots.  A  ball  had  whistled  by  one  of  his  ears. 

"And  as  I  was  not  carrying  any  arms,  I  ran. 
Fortunately,  I  was  near  the  ship,  almost  to  the  prow.  I 
had  only  to  take  a  few  leaps  to  put  myself  aboard  the 
vessel.  .  .  .  And  they  did  not  shoot  any  more." 

Ferragut  remained  silent.  He,  too,  had  grown  pale, 
but  with  surprise  and  anger.  Then  they  were  true,  those 
reports  of  Freya's !  .  .  .  He  could  not  pretend  incredu- 
lity, nor  show  himself  bold  and  indifferent  to  danger 
while  Toni  continued  talking. 

"Take  care,  Ulysses !  .  .  .  I  have  been  thinking  a  great 
deal  about  this  thing.  Those  shots  were  not  meant  for 
me.  What  enemies  have  I  ?  Who  would  want  to  harm 
a  poor  mate  who  never  sees  anybody  ?  .  .  .  Look  out  for 
yourself!  You  know  perhaps  where  they  came  from; 
you  have  dealings  with  many  people." 

The  captain  suspected  that  he  was  recalling  the  adven- 
ture of  Naples  and  that  disgraceful  proposition  guarded 
as  a  secret,  relating  it  to  this  nocturnal  attack.  But 
neither  his  voice  nor  his  eyes  justified  such  suspicions. 
And  Ferragut  preferred  not  to  seem  to  suspect  what 
he  was  thinking  about. 

"Does  any  one  else  know  what  occurred,  .  .  ." 

Toni  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Nobody.  .  .  ."  He 
had  leaped  on  the  steamer,  pacifying  the  dog  on  board, 
that  was  howling  furiously.  The  man  on  guard  had 


4i6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

heard  the  shots,  imagining  that  it  was  some  sailors'  fight. 

"You  have  not  reported  this  to  the  authorities  ?" 

The  mate  became  indignant  on  hearing  this  question, 
with  the  independence  of  the  Mediterranean  who  never 
remembers  authority  in  moments  of  danger  and  whose 
only  defense  is  his  manual  dexterity. — "You  take  me, 
perhaps,  for  a  police-informer?  .  .  ." 

He  had  wanted  to  do  the  manly  thing,  but  henceforth 
he  would  always  go  armed  while  he  happened  to  be  in 
Barcelona.  Ay,  with  this  he  might  shoot  if  he  were  not 
wounded!  .  .  .  And  winking  an  eye,  he  showed  his 
captain  what  he  called  his  "instrument." 

The  mate  disliked  firearms,  crazy  and  noisy  toys  of 
doubtful  result.  With  an  ancestral  affection  which 
appeared  to  evoke  the  flashing  battle-axes  used  by  his 
ancestors,  he  loved  the  blow  in  silence,  the  gleaming 
weapon  which  was  a  prolongation  of  the  hand. 

With  gentle  stealthiness  he  drew  from  his  belt  an 
English  knife,  acquired  at  the  time  that  he  was  skipper 
of  a  small  boat, — a  shining  blade  which  reproduced  the 
faces  of  those  looking  at  it,  with  the  sharp  point  of  a 
stiletto  and  the  edge  of  a  razor. 

Perhaps  he  would  not  be  long  in  making  use  of  his 
"instrument."  He  recalled  various  individuals  who  a 
few  days  ago  were  strolling  slowly  along  the  wharf 
examining  the  vessel,  and  spying  upon  those  going  on  and 
off.  If  he  could  manage  to  see  them  again  he  would  go 
off  the  steamer  just  to  say  a  couple  of  words  to  them. 

"You  are  to  do  nothing  at  all,"  ordered  Ferragut. 
'Til  take  charge  of  this  little  matter." 

All  day  long  he  was  troubled  over  this  news.  Strolling 
about  Barcelona,  he  looked  with  challenging  eyes  at  all 
passersby  who  appeared  to  be  Germans.  To  the  aggress- 
iveness of  his  character  was  now  added  the  indignation 
of  a  proprietor  who  finds  himself  assaulted  within  his 


IN  BARCELONA  417 

home.  Those  three  shots  were  for  him;  and  he  was  a 
Spaniard :  and  the  boches  were  daring  to  attack  him  on 
his  own  ground!  What  audacity!  .  .  . 

Several  times  he  put  his  hand  in  the  back  part  of  his 
trousers,  touching  a  long,  metallic  bulk.  He  was  only 
awaiting  the  nightfall  to  carry  out  a  certain  idea  that 
had  clamped  itself  between  his  two  eyebrows  like  a 
painful  nail.  Whilst  he  was  not  carrying  it  forward  he 
could  not  be  tranquil. 

The  voice  of  his  good  counselor  protested :  "Don't  do 
anything  idiotic,  Ferragut;  don't  hunt  the  enemy,  don't 
provoke  him.  Simply  defend  yourself,  nothing  more." 

But  that  reckless  courage  which  in  times  gone  by  had 
made  him  embark  on  vessels  destined  to  shipwreck,  and 
had  pushed  him  toward  danger  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
conquering  it,  was  now  crying  louder  than  prudence. 

"In  my  own  country!"  he  kept  saying  continually. 
"To  try  to  assassinate  me  when  I  am  on  my  own  land! 
.  .  .  I'll  just  show  them  that  I  am  a  Spaniard.  .  .  ." 

He  knew  well  that  waterfront  saloon  mentioned  by 
Freya.  Two  men  in  his  crew  had  given  him  some  fresh 
information.  The  customers  of  the  bar  were  poor 
Germans  accustomed  to  endless  drinking.  Some  one  was 
paying  for  them,  and  on  certain  days  even  permitted 
them  to  invite  the  skippers  of  the  fishing  boats  and  tramp 
vessels.  A  gramophone  was  continually  playing  there, 
grinding  out  shrill  songs  to  which  the  guests  responded  in 
roaring  chorus.  When  war  news  favorable  to  the  Ger- 
man Empire  was  received,  the  songs  and  drinking  would 
redouble  until  midnight  and  the  shrill  music-box  would 
never  stop  for  an  instant.  On  the  walls  were  portraits 
of  William  II  and  various  chromos  of  his  generals.  The 
proprietor  of  the  bar,  a  fat-legged  German  with  square 
head,  stiff  hair  and  drooping  mustache,  used  to  answer 
to  the  nickname  of  Hindenburg. 


4i8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  sailor  grinned  at  the  mere  thought  of  putting 
that  Hindenburg  underneath  his  own  counter.  .  .  .  He'd 
just  like  to  see  this  establishment  where  his  name  had 
been  uttered  so  many  times ! 

At  nightfall,  his  feet  took  him  toward  the  bar  with  an 
irresistible  impulse  which  disdained  all  counsels  of 
prudence. 

The  glass  door  resisted  his  nervous  hands,  perhaps 
because  he  handled  the  latch  with  too  much  force.  And 
the  captain  finally  opened  it  by  giving  a  kick  to  its 
lower  part,  made  of  wood. 

The  panes  almost  flew  out  from  the  shock  of 
this  brutal  blow.  A  magnificent  entrance!  .  .  .  He  saw 
much  smoke,  perforated  by  the  red  stars  of  three  electric 
bulbs  which  had  just  been  lit,  and  men  around  the  various 
tables,  facing  him  or  with  their  backs  turned.  The 
gramophone  was  shrilling  in  a  nasal  tone  like  an  old 
woman  without  teeth.  Back  of  the  counter  appeared 
Hindenburg,  his  throat  open,  sleeves  rolled  up  over  arms 
as  fat  as  legs. 

"I  am  Captain  Ulysses  Ferragut." 

The  voice  that  said  this  had  a  power  similar  to  that 
of  the  magic  words  of  Oriental  tales  which  held  the  life 
of  an  entire  city  in  suspense,  leaving  persons  and  objects 
immovable  in  the  very  attitude  in  which  the  powerful 
conjurer  surprised  them. 

There  was  the  silence  of  astonishment.  Those  were 
beginning  to  turn  their  heads,  attracted  by  the  noise  of 
the  door,  did  not  go  on  with  the  movement.  Those  in 
front  remained  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  one  who  was 
entering,  eyes  widened  with  surprise  as  if  they  could  not 
believe  what  they  saw.  The  gramophone  was  suddenly 
hushed.  Hindenburg,  who  was  washing  out  a  glass, 
remained  with  motionless  hands,  without  even  taking 
the  napkin  from  its  crystal  cavity. 


IN  BARCELONA  419 

Ferragut  seated  himself  near  an  empty  table  with  his 
back  against  the  wall.  A  waiter,  the  only  one  in  the 
establishment,  hastened  to  find  out  what  the  gentleman 
wished.  He  was  an  Andalusian,  small  and  sprightly, 
whose  escapades  had  brought  him  to  Barcelona.  He 
usually  served  his  customers  with  indifference,  without 
taking  any  interest  in  their  words  and  their  hymns.  He 
"didn't  mix  himself  up  in  politics."  Accustomed  to  the 
ways  of  gay  and  hot-blooded  people,  he  suspected  that 
this  man  had  come  to  pick  a  quarrel,  and  hoped  to  soften 
him  with  his  smiling  and  obsequious  manner. 

The  sailor  spoke  to  him  aloud.  He  knew  that  in  that 
low  cafe  his  name  was  frequently  used  and  that  there 
were  many  there  who  desired  to  see  him.  He  could  give 
them  the  message  that  Captain  Ferragut  was  there  at 
their  disposition. 

"I  shall  do  so,"  said  the  Andalusian. 

And  he  went  away  to  the  counter,  bringing  him,  in  a 
little  while,  a  bottle  and  a  glass. 

In  vain  Ulysses  fixed  his  glance  on  those  who  were 
occupying  the  nearby  tables.  Some,  turning  their  backs 
upon  him,  were  absolutely  rigid;  others  had  their  eyes 
cast  down  and  were  talking  quietly  with  mysterious 
whispering. 

Finally  two  or  three  exchanged  glances  with  the 
captain.  In  their  pupils  was  the  snap  of  budding  wrath. 
The  first  surprise  having  vanished,  they  seemed  disposed 
to  rise  up  and  fall  upon  the  recent  arrival.  But  some  one 
behind  him  appeared  to  be  controlling  them  with  mur- 
mured orders,  and  they  finally  obeyed  him,  lowering 
their  eyes  in  submissive  restraint. 

Ulysses  soon  tired  of  this  silence.  He  was  beginning 
to  find  his  attitude  of  animal-tamer  rather  ridiculous. 
He  did  not  know  whom  to  assail  in  a  place  where  they 
avoided  his  glance  and  all  contact  with  him.  On  the 


420  MARE  NOSTRUM 

nearest  table  there  was  an  illustrated  newspaper,  and  he 
took  possession  of  it,  turning  its  leaves.  It  was  printed 
in  German,  but  he  pretended  to  read  it  with  great 
interest. 

He  had  seated  himself  at  the  side,  leaving  free  the  hip 
on  which  his  revolver  was  resting.  His  hand,  feigning 
distraction,  passed  near  the  opening  of  his  pocket,  ready 
to  take  up  arms  in  case  of  attack.  In  a  little  while  he 
regretted  this  excessively  swaggering  posture.  They 
were  going  to  fall  upon  him,  taking  advantage  of  his 
reading.  But  pride  made  him  remain  motionless,  that 
they  might  not  suspect  his  uneasiness. 

Then  he  laughed  in  an  insolent  way  as  though  he  were 
reading  in  the  German  illustration  something  that  was 
provoking  his  jibes.  As  though  this  were  not  enough, 
he  raised  his  eyes  with  aggressive  curiosity  in  order  to 
study  the  portraits  adorning  the  wall. 

Then  he  realized  the  great  transformation  which  had 
just  taken  place  in  the  bar.  Almost  all  the  customers 
had  filed  silently  out  during  his  reading.  There  remained 
only  four  blear-eyed  drunkards  who  were  guzzling  with 
satisfaction,  occupied  with  the  contents  of  their  glasses. 
Hindenburg,  turning  his  mighty  back  upon  his  clientele, 
was  reading  an  evening  newspaper  on  the  counter.  The 
Andalusian,  seated  in  the  background,  was  looking  at  the 
captain,  smiling.  "There's  an  old  sport  for  you!  .  .  ." 
He  was  mentally  chuckling  over  the  fact  that  one  of  his 
countrymen  had  put  to  flight  the  brawling  and  brutal 
drinkers  who  gave  him  so  much  trouble  on  other 
evenings. 

Ulysses  consulted  his  watch :  half-past  seven.  Already 
he  had  driven  away  all  those  people  that  Freya  was  so 
afraid  of.  What  was  left  to  do  here  ?  ...  He  paid  and 
went  out. 

Night  had  fallen.    Under  the  light  of  the  electric  lamp 


IN  BARCELONA  421 

posts  street  cars  and  automobiles  were  passing  toward 
the  interior  of  the  city.  Following  the  arcades  of  the 
old  edifices  near  the  harbor,  groups  of  workers  from 
the  maritime  establishments  were  filing  by.  Barcelona, 
dazzling  with  splendor,  was  attracting  the  crowds.  The 
inner  harbor,  black  and  solitary,  was  filled  with  weak 
little  lights  twinkling  from  the  heights  of  the  masts. 

Ferragut  stood  undecided  whether  to  go  home  to  eat, 
or  to  a  restaurant  in  the  Rambla.  Then  he  suspected 
that  some  of  the  fugitives  from  that  dirty  cafe  were 
near,  intending  to  follow  him.  In  vain  he  glanced 
searchingly  around:  he  could  not  recognize  anybody  in 
the  groups  that  were  reading  the  papers  or  conversing 
while  waiting  for  the  street  car. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  desire  to  see  Toni.  Uncle  Caragol 
would  improvise  something  to  eat  while  the  captain  was 
telling  his  mate  all  about  his  adventure  at  the  bar. 
Besides,  it  seemed  to  him  a  fitting  finale  to  his  escapade 
to  offer  to  any  enemies  that  might  be  following  him  a 
favorable  occasion  for  attacking  him  on  the  deserted 
wharf.  The  demon  of  false  pride  was  whispering  in  his 
ears:  "Thus  they  will  see  that  you  are  not  afraid  of 
them." 

And  he  marched  resolutely  toward  the  harbor,  passing 
over  railroad  tracks  outlining  the  walls  of  long  store- 
houses and  winding  in  and  out  among  mountains  of  mer- 
chandise. At  first  he  met  little  groups  going  toward  the 
city,  then  pairs,  then  single  individuals,  finally  nobody 
— absolute  solitude. 

Further  on,  the  darkness  was  cut  by  silhouettes  of 
ebony  that  sometimes  were  boats  and  at  others,  alleyways 
of  packages  or  hills  of  coal.  The  black  water  reflected 
the  red  and  green  serpents  from  the  lights  on  the  boats. 
A  transatlantic  liner  was  prolonging  its  loading  opera- 
tions by  the  light  of  its  electric  reflectors,  standing  forth 


422  MARE  NOSTRUM 

out  of  the  darkness  with  the  gayety  of  a  Venetian  fiesta. 

From  time  to  time  a  man  of  slow  step  would  come 
within  the  circle  of  the  street  lamp,  the  muzzle  of  his 
gun  gleaming.  Others  were  lying  in  ambush  among  the 
mountains  of  cargo.  They  were  custom-house  men  and 
guardians  of  the  port. 

Suddenly  the  captain  felt  an  instinctive  warning. 
They  were  following  him.  .  .  .  He  stopped  in  the 
shadows,  close  to  a  pile  of  crates  and  saw  some  men 
advancing  in  his  direction,  passing  rapidly  over  the  edge 
of  the  red  spot  made  by  the  electric  bulbs,  so  as  not  to  be 
under  the  rain  of  light. 

Although  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  recognize  them, 
he  was  positive,  nevertheless,  that  they  were  the  enemy 
seen  at  the  bar. 

His  ship  was  far  away,  near  the  end  of  the  dock  most 
deserted  at  that  hour.  "You've  done  an  idiotic  thing,"  he 
said  mentally. 

He  began  to  repent  of  his  rashness,  but  it  was  now  far 
too  late  to  turn  back.  The  city  was  further  away  than  the 
steamer,  and  his  enemies  would  fall  upon  him  just  as 
soon  as  they  saw  him  going  back.  How  many  were 
there?  .  .  .  That  was  the  only  thing  that  troubled  him. 

"Go  on!  ...    Go  on!"  cried  his  pride. 

He  had  drawn  out  his  revolver  and  was  carrying  it 
in  his  right  hand  with  the  barrel  to  the  front.  In  this 
solitude  he  could  not  count  upon  the  conventions  of 
civilized  life.  Night  was  swallowing  him  up  with  all  the 
ambushed  traps  of  a  virgin  forest  while  before  his  eyes 
was  sparkling  a  great  city,  crowned  with  electric 
diamonds,  throwing  a  halo  of  flame  into  the  blackness  of 
space. 

Three  times  the  Carabineers  passed  near  him,  but  he 
did  not  wish  to  speak  to  them.  "Forward !  Only  women 
had  to  ask  assistance.  .  .  ."  Besides,  perhaps  he  was 


IN  BARCELONA  423 

under  an  hallucination:  he  really  could  not  swear  that 
they  were  in  pursuit  of  him. 

After  a  few  steps,  this  doubt  vanished.  His  senses, 
sharpened  by  danger,  had  the  same  perception  as  has  the 
wild  boar  who  scents  the  pack  of  hounds  trying  to  cross 
his  tracks.  At  his  right,  was  the  water.  At  his  left, 
men  were  prowling  behind  the  mountains  of  freight, 
wishing  to  cut  him  off ;  behind  were  coming  still  others  to 
prevent  his  retreat. 

He  might  run,  advancing  toward  those  who  were  trying 
to  hem  him  in.  But  ought  a  man  to  run  with  a  revolver 
in  his  hand  ?  .  .  .  Those  who  were  coming  behind  would 
join  in  the  pursuit.  A  human  hunt  was  going  to  take 
place  in  the  night,  and  he,  Ferragut,  would  be  the  deer 
pursued  by  the  low  crowds  from  the  bar.  "Ah,  no  !  .  .  ." 
The  captain  recalled  von  Kramer  galloping  miserably  in 
full  daylight  along  the  wharves  of  Marseilles.  ...  If 
they  must  kill  him,  let  it  not  be  in  flight. 

He  continued  his  advance  with  a  rapid  step,  seeing 
through  his  enemies'  plans.  They  did  not  wish  to  show 
themselves  in  that  part  of  the  harbor  obstructed  by  moun- 
tains of  cases,  fearing  that  he  might  hide  himself  there. 
They  would  await  him  near  his  ship  in  a  safe,  hidden 
spot  by  which  he  would  undoubtedly  have  to  pass. 

"Forward!"  he  kept  repeating  to  himself.  "If  I  have 
to  die,  let  it  be  within  sight  of  the  Mare  Nostrum!'' 
The  steamer  was  near.  He  could  recognize  now  its  black 
silhouette  fast  to  the  wharf.  At  that  moment  the  dog 
on  board  began  to  bark  furiously,  announcing  the  cap- 
tain's presence  and  danger  at  the  same  time. 

He  abandoned  the  shelter  of  a  hillock  of  coal,  advanc- 
ing over  an  open  space.  He  concentrated  all  his  will 
power  upon  gaining  his  vessel  as  quickly  as  possible. 

A  swift  flame  flashed  out,  followed  by  a  report.  They 
were  already  shooting  at  him.  Other  little  lights  began 


424  MARE  NOSTRUM 

to  twinkle  from  different  sides  of  the  dock,  followed  by 
reports  of  a  gun.  It  was  a  sharp  cross-fire ;  behind  him 
they  were  firing,  too.  He  felt  various  whistlings  near 
his  ears,  and  received  a  blow  on  the  shoulder, — a  sensa- 
tion like  that  from  a  hot  stone. 

They  were  going  to  kill  him.  His  enemies  were  too 
many  for  him.  And,  without  knowing  exactly  what  he 
was  doing,  yielding  to  instinct,  he  threw  himself  on  the 
ground  like  a  dying  person. 

Some  few  shots  were  still  sounding.  Then  all  was 
silent.  Only  on  the  nearby  ship  the  dog  was  continuing 
its  howling. 

He  saw  a  shadow  advancing  slowly  toward  him.  It 
was  a  man,  one  of  his  enemies,  coming  out  from  the 
group  in  order  to  examine  him  at  close  range.  He  let 
him  come  close  up  to  him,  with  his  right  hand  grasping 
his  revolver  still  intact. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  arm,  striking  the  head  that 
was  bending  over  him.  Two  lightning  streaks  flashed 
from  his  hand,  separated  by  a  brief  interval.  The  first 
flitting  blaze  of  fire  made  him  see  a  familiar  face.  .  .  . 
Was  it  really  Karl,  the  doctor's  factotum?  .  .  .  The 
second  explosion  aided  his  memory.  Yes,  it  was  Karl, 
with  his  features  disfigured  by  a  black  gash  in  the  tem- 
ple. .  .  .  The  German  pulled  himself  up  with  an  agoniz- 
ing shudder,  then  fell  on  his  back,  with  his  arms  re- 
laxed. 

This  vision  was  instantaneous.  The  captain  must 
think  only  of  himself  now,  and  springing  up  with  a 
bound,  he  ran  and  ran,  bending  himself  double,  in  order 
to  offer  the  enemy  the  least  possible  mark. 

He  dreaded  a  general  discharge,  a  hail  of  bullets ;  but 
his  pursuers  hesitated  a  few  moments,  confused  in  the 
darkness  and  not  knowing  surely  whether  it  was  the 
captain  who  had  fallen  a  second  time. 


IN  BARCELONA  425 

Only  upon  seeing  a  man  running  toward  the  ship  did 
they  recognize  their  error,  and  renew  their  shots.  Fer- 
ragut  passed  between  the  balls  along  the  edge  of  the 
wharf,  the  whole  length  of  the  Mare  Nostrum.  His 
salvation  was  now  but  a  matter  of  seconds  provided  that 
the  crew  had  not  drawn  in  the  gangplank  between  the 
steamer  and  the  shore. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  on  the  gangplank,  at  the 
same  time  seeing  a  man  advancing  toward  him  with 
something  gleaming  in  one  hand.  It  was  the  mate  who 
had  just  come  out  with  his  knife  drawn. 

The  captain  feared  that  he  might  make  a  mistake. 
"Toni,  it  is  I,"  he  said  in  a  voice  almost  breathless  be- 
cause of  the  effort  of  his  running. 

Upon  treading  the  deck  of  his  vessel,  he  instantly  re- 
covered his  tranquillity. 

Already  the  shots  had  ceased  and  the  silence  was 
ominous.  In  the  distance  could  be  heard  whistlings,  cries 
of  alarm,  the  noise  of  running.  The  Carabineers  and 
guards  were  called  and  grouped  together  in  order  to 
charge  in  the  dark,  marching  toward  the  spot  where  the 
shooting  had  sounded. 

"Haul  in  the  gangplank !"  ordered  Ferragut. 
The  mate  aided  three  of  the  hands  who  had  just  come 
up  to  retire  the  gangplank  hastily.     Then  he  threatened 
the  dogv  i;o  make  it  cease  howling. 

Ferragut,  near  the  railing,  scanned  carefully  the  dark- 
ness of  the  quay.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  see 
some  men  carrying  another  in  their  arms.  A  remnant 
of  his  wrath  made  him  raise  his  right  hand,  still  armed, 
aiming  at  the  group.  Then  he  lowered  it  again.  ...  He 
remembered  that  officers  would  be  coming  to  investigate 
the  occurrence.  It  was  better  that  they  should  find  the 
boat  absolutely  silent. 


426  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Still  panting,  he  entered  the  saloon  under  the  poop  and 
sat  down. 

As  soon  as  he  was  within  the  circle  of  pale  light  that 
a  hanging  lamp  spread  upon  the  table  Toni  fixed  his 
glance  on  his  left  shoulder. 

"Blood!  .  .  ." 

"It's  nothing.  .  .  .  Merely  a  scratch.  The  proof  of 
it  is  that  I  can  move  my  arm." 

And  he  moved  it,  although  with  a  certain  difficulty, 
feeling  the  weight  of  an  increasing  swelling. 

"By-and-by  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  ...  I  don't 
believe  they'll  be  anxious  to  repeat  it." 

Then  he  remained  thoughtful  for  an  instant. 

"At  any  rate,  it's  best  for  us  to  get  away  from  this 
port  quickly.  ...  Go  and  see  our  men.  Not  one  of  them 
is  to  speak  about  it !  ...  Call  Caragol." 

Before  Toni  could  go  out,  the  shining  countenance  of 
the  cook  surged  up  out  of  the  obscurity.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  the  saloon,  without  being  called,  anxious  to  know 
what  had  occurred,  and  fearing  to  find  Ferragut  dying. 
Seeing  the  blood,  his  consternation  expressed  itself  with 
maternal  vehemence. 

"Cristo  del  Grao!  .  .  .  My  captain's  going  to 
die!  .  .  ." 

He  wanted  to  run  to  the  galley  in  search  of  cotton  and 
bandages.  He  was  something  of  a  quack  doctor  and 
always  kept  things  necessary  for  such  cases. 

Ulysses  stopped  him.  He  would  accept  his  services, 
but  he  wished  something  more. 

"I  want  to  eat,  Uncle  Caragol,"  he  said  gayly.  "I  shall 
be  content  with  whatever  you  have.  .  .  .  Fright  has  given 
me  an  appetite." 


CHAPTER  XI 
"FAREWELL,  i  AM  GOING  TO  DIE" 

WHEN  Ferragut  left  Barcelona  the  wound  in  his  shoul- 
der was  already  nearly  healed.  The  rotund  negative 
given  by  the  captain  and  his  pilot  to  the  questions  of 
the  Carabineers  freed  them  from  further  annoyance. 
They  "knew  nothing, — had  seen  nothing."  The  captain 
received  with  feigned  indifference  the  news  that  the  dead 
body  of  a  man  had  been  found  that  very  night, — a  man 
who  appeared  to  be  a  German,  but  without  papers,  with- 
out anything  that  assured  his  identification, — on  a  dock 
some  distance  from  the  berth  occupied  by  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum. The  authorities  had  not  considered  it  worth  while 
to  investigate  further,  classifying  it  as  a  simple  struggle 
among  refugees. 

Provisioning  the  troops  of  the  Orient  obliged  Ferra- 
gut, in  the  months  following,  to  sail  as  part  of  a  convoy. 
A  cipher  dispatch  would  sometimes  summon  him  to 
Marseilles,  at  others  to  an  Atlantic  port, — Saint-Nazaire, 
Quiberon,  or  Brest. 

Every  few  days  ships  of  different  class  and  nationality 
were  arriving.  There  were  those  that  displayed  their 
aristocratic  origin  by  the  fine  line  of  the  prow,  the  slen- 
derness  of  the  smokestacks  and  the  still  white  color  of 
their  upper  decks:  they  were  like  the  high-priced  steeds 
that  war  had  transformed  into  simple  beasts  of  battle. 
Former  mail-packets,  swift  racers  of  the  waves,  had  de- 
scended to  the  humble  service  of  transport  boats.  Others, 
black  and  dirty,  with  the  pitchy  plaster  of  hasty  repara- 

427 


428  MARE  NOSTRUM 

tion  and  a  consumptive  smokestack  on  an  enormous  hull, 
plowed  along,  coughing  smoke,  spitting  ashes,  panting 
with  the  jangle  of  old  iron.  The  flags  of  the  Allies  and 
those  of  the  neutral  navies  waved  on  the  different  ships. 
Reuniting,  they  formed  a  convoy  in  the  broad  bay.  There 
were  fifteen  or  twenty  steamers,  sometimes  thirty,  which 
had  to  navigate  together,  adjusting  their  different  speeds 
to  a  common  pace.  The  cargo  boats,  merchant  steamers 
that  made  only  a  few  knots  an  hour,  exacted  a  desperate 
slowness  of  the  rest  of  the  convoy. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  had  to  sail  at  half  speed,  making 
its  captain  very  impatient  with  these  monotonous 
and  dangerous  peregrinations,  extending  over  weeks  and 
weeks. 

Before  setting  out,  Ferragut,  like  all  the  other  cap- 
tains, would  receive  sealed  and  stamped  orders.  These 
were  from  the  Commodore  of  the  convoy, — the  com- 
mander of  a  torpedo  destroyer,  or  a  simple  officer  of 
the  Naval  Reserve  in  charge  of  a  motor  trawler  armed 
with  a  quickfiring  gun. 

The  steamers  would  begin  belching  smoke  and  hoisting 
anchors  without  knowing  whither  they  were  going.  The 
official  document  was  opened  only  at  the  moment  of  de- 
parture. Ulysses  would  break  the  seals  and  examine 
the  paper,  understanding  with  facility  its  formal  lan- 
guage, written  in  a  common  cipher.  The  first  thing  that 
he  would  look  out  for  was  the  port  of  destination,  then, 
the  order  of  formation.  They  were  to  sail  in  single  file 
or  in  a  double  row,  according  to  the  number  of  vessels. 
The  Mare  Nostrum,  represented  by  a  certain  number, 
was  to  navigate  between  two  other  numbers  which  were 
those  of  the  nearest  steamers.  They  were  to  keep  be- 
tween them  a  distance  of  about  five  hundred  yards;  it 
was  important  that  they  should  not  come  any  nearer  in 
a  moment  of  carelessness,  nor  prolong  the  line  so  that 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      429 

they  would  be  out  of  sight  of  the  watchful  guardians. 

At  the  end,  the  general  instructions  for  all  the  voyages 
were  repeated  with  a  laconic  brevity  that  would  have 
made  other  men,  not  accustomed  to  look  death  in  the 
face,  turn  pale.  In  case  of  a  submarine  attack,  the  trans- 
ports that  carried  guns  were  to  come  out  from  the  line 
and  aid  the  patrol  of  armed  vessels,  attacking  the  en- 
emy. The  others  were  to  continue  their  course  tranquilly, 
without  paying  any  attention  to  the  attack.  If  the  boat 
in  front  of  them  or  the  one  following  was  torpedoed,  they 
were  not  to  stop  to  give  it  aid.  The  torpedo  boats  and 
"chaluteros"  were  charged  with  saving  the  wrecked  ship 
if  it  were  possible.  The  duty  of  the  transport  was 
always  to  go  forward,  blind  and  deaf,  without  getting  out 
of  line,  without  stopping,  until  it  had  delivered  at  the 
terminal  port  the  fortune  stowed  in  its  holds. 

This  march  in  convoy  imposed  by  the  submarine  war 
represented  a  leap  backward  in  the  life  of  the  sea.  It 
recalled  to  Ferragut's  mind  the  sailing  fleets  of  other 
centuries,  escorted  by  navies  in  line,  punctuating  their 
course  by  incessant  battles,  and  the  remote  voyages  of  the 
galleons  of  the  Indies,  setting  forth  from  Seville  in  fleets 
when  bound  for  the  coast  of  the  New  World. 

The  double  file  of  black  hulks  with  plumes  of  smoke 
advanced  very  placidly  in  fair  weather.  When  the  day 
was  gray,  the  sea  choppy,  the  sky  and  the  atmosphere 
foggy,  they  would  scatter  and  leap  about  like  a  troop 
of  dark  and  frightened  lambs.  The  guardians  of  the 
convoy,  three  little  boats  that  were  going  at  full  speed, 
were  the  vigilant  mastiffs  of  this  marine  herd,  preceding 
it  in  order  to  explore  the  horizon,  remaining  behind  it, 
or  marching  beside  it  in  order  to  keep  the  formation  in- 
tact. Their  lightness  and  their  swiftness  enabled  them 
to  make  prodigious  bounds  over  the  waves.  A  girdle 
of  smoke  curled  itself  around  their  double  smokestacks. 


430  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Their  prows  when  not  hidden  were  expelling  cascades 
of  foam,  sometimes  even  showing  the  dripping  forefoot 
of  the  keel. 

At  night  time  they  would  all  travel  with  few  lights, 
simple  lanterns  at  the  prow,  as  warning  to  the  one  just 
ahead,  and  another  one  at  the  stern,  to  point  out  the 
route  to  the  ship  following.  These  faint  lights  could 
scarcely  be  seen.  Oftentimes  the  helmsman  would  sud- 
denly have  to  turn  his  course  and  demand  slackened 
speed  behind,  seeing  the  silhouette  of  the  boat  ahead 
looming  up  in  the  darkness.  A  few  moments  of  care- 
lessness and  it  would  come  in  on  the  prow  with  a 
deadly  ram.  Upon  slowing  down,  the  captain  always 
looked  behind  uneasily,  fearing  in  turn  to  collide  with 
his  following  ship. 

They  were  all  thinking  about  the  invisible  submarines. 
From  time  to  time  would  sound  the  report  of  the  guns ; 
the  convoy's  escort  was  shooting  and  shooting,  going 
from  one  side  to  the  other  with  agile  evolutions.  The 
enemy  had  fled  like  wolves  before  the  barking  of  watch- 
dogs. On  other  occasions  it  would  prove  a  false  alarm, 
and  the  shells  would  wound  the  desert  water  with  a 
lashing  of  steel. 

There  was  an  enemy  more  troublesome  than  the  tem- 
pest, more  terrible  than  the  torpedoes,  that  disorganized 
the  convoys.  It  was  the  fog,  thick  and  pale  as  the  white 
of  an  egg,  enshrouding  the  vessels,  making  them 
navigate  blindly  in  full  daylight,  filling  space  with  the 
useless  moaning  of  their  sirens,  not  letting  them  see 
the  water  which  sustained  them  nor  the  nearby  boats 
that  might  emerge  at  any  moment  from  the  blank  atmos- 
phere, announcing  their  apparition  with  a  collision  and 
a  tremendous,  deadly  crash.  In  this  way  the  merchant 
fleets  had  to  proceed  entire  days  together  and  when,  at 
the  end,  they  found  themselves  free  from  this  wet 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      431 

blanket,  breathing  with  satisfaction  as  though  awaking 
from  a  nightmare,  another  ashy  and  nebulous  wall 
would  come  advancing  over  the  waters  enveloping  them 
anew  in  its  night.  The  most  valorous  and  calm  men 
would  swear  upon  seeing  the  endless  bar  of  mist  closing 
off  the  horizon. 

Such  voyages  were  not  at  all  to  Ferragut's  taste. 
Marching  in  line  like  a  soldier,  and  having  to  conform 
to  the  speed  of  these  miserable  little  boats  irritated  him 
greatly,  and  it  made  him  still  more  wrathful  to  find  him- 
self obliged  to  obey  the  Commodore  of  a  convoy  who 
frequently  was  nobody  but  an  old  sailor  of  masterful 
character. 

Because  of  all  this  he  announced  to  the  maritime  au- 
thorities, on  one  of  his  arrivals  at  Marseilles,  his  firm 
intention  of  not  sailing  any  more  in  this  fashion.  He 
had  had  enough  with  four  such  expeditions  which  were 
all  well  enough  for  timid  captains  incapable  of  leaving 
a  port  unless  they  always  had  in  sight  an  escort  of 
torpedo-boats,  and  whose  crews  at  the  slightest  occur- 
rence would  try  to  lower  the  lifeboats  and  take  refuge  on 
the  coast.  He  believed  that  he  would  be  more  secure 
going  alone,  trusting  to  his  skill,  with  no  other  aid  than 
his  profound  knowledge  of  the  routes  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean. 

His  petition  was  granted.  He  was  the  owner  of  a 
vessel  and  they  were  afraid  of  losing  his  cooperation 
when  means  of  transportation  were  growing  so  very 
scarce.  Besides,  the  Mare  Nostrum,  on  account  of  its 
high  speed,  deserved  individual  employment  in  extraor- 
dinary and  rapid  service. 

He  remained  in  Marseilles  some  weeks  waiting  for  a 
cargo  of  howitzers,  and  meandered  as  usual  around  the 
Mediterranean  capital.  He  passed  the  evenings  on  the 
terrace  of  a  cafe  of  the  Cannebiere.  The  recollection  of 


432  MARE  NOSTRUM 

von  Kramer  always  loomed  up  in  his  mind  at  such 
times.  "I  wonder  if  they  have  shot  him!  .  .  ."  He 
wished  to  know,  but  his  investigations  did  not  meet  with 
much  success.  War  Councils  avoid  publicity  regarding 
their  acts  of  justice.  A  Marseilles  merchant,  a  friend 
of  Ferragut,  seemed  to  recall  that  some  months  before 
a  German  spy,  surprised  in  the  harbor,  had  been  exe- 
cuted. Three  lines,  no  more,  in  the  newspapers,  gave 
an  account  of  his  death.  They  said  that  he  was  an  of- 
ficer. .  .  .  And  his  friend  went  on  talking  about  the 
war  news  while  Ulysses  was  thinking  that  the  executed 
man  could  not  have  been  any  one  else  but  von  Kramer. 

On  that  same  afternoon  he  had  an  encounter.  While 
passing  through  the  street  of  Saint-Ferreol,  looking  at 
the  show  windows,  the  cries  of  several  conductors  of 
cabs  and  automobiles  who  could  not  manage  to  drive  their 
vehicles  through  the  narrow  and  crowded  streets,  at- 
tracted his  attention.  In  one  carriage  he  saw  a  blonde 
lady  with  her  back  to  him,  accompanied  by  two  officers 
of  the  English  navy.  Immediately  he  thought  of  Freya. 
.  .  .  Her  hat,  her  gown,  everything  about  her  person- 
ality, was  so  very  distinctive.  And  yet,  when  the  coach 
had  passed  on  without  his  being  able  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  face  of  the  stranger,  the  image  of  the  adventuress 
persisted  in  his  mind. 

Finally  he  became  very  much  irritated  with  himself, 
because  of  this  absurd  resemblance  suspected  with- 
out any  reason  whatever.  How  could  that  English- 
woman with  the  two  officers  be  Freya?  .  .  .  How 
could  a  German  refugee  in  Barcelona  manage  to  slip  into 
France  where  she  was  undoubtedly  known  by  the  mili- 
tary police?  .  .  .  And  still  more  exasperating  was  his 
suspicion  that  this  resemblance  might  have  awakened 
a  remnant  of  the  old  love  which  made  him  see  Freya 
in  every  blonde  woman. 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      433 

At  nine  o'clock  the  following  morning,  while  the  cap- 
tain was  in  his  stateroom  dressing  to  go  ashore,  Toni 
opened  the  door. 

His  face  was  scowling  and  timid  at  the  same  time,  as 
though  he  had  some  bad  news  to  give. 

"That  creature  is  here,"  he  said  laconically. 

Ferragut  looked  at  him  with  a  questioning  expression : 
"What  creature?  .  .  ." 

"Who  else  could  it  be?  ...  The  one  from  Naples! 
That  blonde  devil  that  brought  us  all  so  much  trouble! 
.  .  .  We'll  see  now  if  this  witch  is  going  to  keep  us 
immovable  for  I  don't  know  how  many  weeks  just  as  she 
did  the  other  time." 

He  excused  himself  as  though  he  had  just  failed  in 
discipline.  The  boat  was  fastened  to  the  wharf  by  a 
bridgeway  and  anybody  could  come  aboard.  The  pilot 
was  opposed  to  these  dockings  which  left  the  passage 
free  to  the  curious  and  the  importunate.  By  the  time  he 
had  finished  announcing  her  arrival,  the  lady  was  already 
on  deck  near  the  staterooms.  She  remembered  well 
the  way  to  the  saloon.  She  had  wished  to  go  straight 
in,  but  it  had  been  Caragol  who  had  stopped  her,  while 
Toni  went  to  advise  the  captain. 

"Cristo!"  murmured  Ulysses.     "Cristo!  .  .  ." 

And  his  astonishment,  his  surprise,  did  not  permit  him 
to  utter  any  other  exclamation. 

Then  he  burst  out  furiously.  "Throw  her  overboard! 
.  .  .  Let  two  men  lay  hold  of  her  and  put  her  back  on 
the  wharf,  by  main  force,  if  necessary." 

But  Toni  hesitated,  not  daring  to  comply  with  such 
commands.  And  the  impetuous  Ferragut  rushed  outside 
of  his  cabin  to  do  himself  what  had  been  ordered. 

When  he  reached  the  saloon  some  one  entered  at  the 
same  time  from  the  deck.  It  was  Caragol,  who  was 
trying  to  block  the  passage  of  a  woman ;  but  she,  laughing 


434  MARE  NOSTRUM 

and  taking  advantage  of  his  purblind  eyes,  was  slipping 
little  by  little  in  between  his  body  and  the  wooden  par- 
tition. 

On  seeing  the  captain,  Freya  ran  toward  him,  throwing 
out  her  arms. 

"You!"  she  cried  in  a  merry  voice.  "I  knew  well 
enough  that  you  were  here,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
these  men  were  assuring  me  to  the  contrary.  .  .  .  My 
heart  told  me  so.  ...  How  do  you  do,  Ulysses !" 

Caragol  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  place  where  he 
supposed  the  mate  must  be,  as  though  imploring  his 
pardon.  With  females  he  never  could  carry  out  any 
order.  .  .  .  Toni,  on  his  part,  appeared  in  an  agony  of 
shame  before  this  woman  who  was  looking  at  him  de- 
fiantly. 

The  two  disappeared.  Ferragut  was  not  able  to  say 
exactly  how  they  got  away,  but  he  was  glad  of  it.  He 
feared  that  the  recent  arrival  might  allude  in  their 
presence  to  the  things  of  the  past. 

He  remained  contemplating  her  a  long  time.  He  had 
believed  the  day  before  that  he  had  recognized  her  back, 
and  now  he  was  sure  that  he  might  have  passed  on  with 
indifference  had  he  seen  her  face.  Was  this  really  the 
same  woman  that  the  two  English  officials  were  ac- 
companying? .  .  .  She  appeared  much  taller  than  the 
other  one,  with  a  slenderness  that  made  her  skin  appear 
more  clear,  giving  it  a  delicate  transparency.  The  nose 
was  finer  and  more  prominent.  The  eyes  were  sparkling, 
hidden  in  bluish  black  circles. 

These  eyes  began  to  look  at  the  captain,  humbly  and 
pleadingly. 

"You!"  exclaimed  Ulysses  in  wonder.  "You!  .  .  . 
What  are  you  coming  here  f or  ?"  .  .  . 

Freya  replied  with  the  timidity  of  a  bondslave.  Yes, 
it  was  she  who  had  recognized  him  the  day  before,  long 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      435 

before  he  had  seen  her,  and  at  once  had  formed  the 
plan  of  coming  in  search  of  him.  He  could  beat  her 
just  as  at  their  last  meeting:  she  was  ready  to  suffer 
everything  .  .  .  but  with  him! 

"Save  me,  Ulysses !  Take  me  with  you !  .  .  .  I  im- 
plore you  even  more  anxiously  than  in  Barcelona." 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  .  .  ." 

She  understood  the  captain's  amazement  on  meeting 
her  in  a  belligerent  country,  the  disquietude  he  must 
naturally  feel  upon  finding  a  spy  on  his  vessel.  She 
looked  around  in  order  to  make  sure  that  they  were  en- 
tirely alone  and  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  The  doctor  had 
sent  her  to  France  in  order  that  she  should  "operate" 
in  its  ports.  Only  to  him  could  she  reveal  the  secret. 

Ulysses  was  more  indignant  than  ever  at  this  confi- 
dence. 

"Clear  out!"  he  said  in  a  wrathful  voice.  "I  don't 
want  to  know  anything  about  you.  .  .  .  Your  affairs 
do  not  interest  me  at  all.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  them. 
.  .  .  Get  out  of  here !  What  are  you  plaguing  me  for  ?" 

But  she  did  not  appear  disposed  to  comply  with  his 
orders.  Instead  of  departing,  she  dropped  wearily  down 
on  one  of  the  divans  of  the  stateroom. 

"I  have  come,"  she  said,  "to  beg  you  to  save  me.  I 
ask  it  for  the  last  time.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  die;  I  sus- 
pect that  my  end  is  very  near  if  you  will  not  hold  out 
a  helping  hand;  I  foresee  the  vengeance  of  my  own 
people.  .  .  .  Guard  me,  Ulysses!  Do  not  make  me  go 
back  ashore;  I  am  afraid.  ...  So  safe  I  shall  feel  here 
at  your  side !  .  .  ." 

Fear,  sure  enough,  was  reflected  in  her  eyes  as  she 
recalled  the  last  months  of  her  life  in  Barcelona. 

"The  doctor  is  my  enemy.  .  .  .  She  who  protected  me 
so  in  other  times  abandons  me  now  like  an  old  shoe  that 


436  MARE  NOSTRUM 

it  is  necessary  to  get  rid  of.  I  am  positive  that  her 
superior  officers  have  condemned  me.  .  .  ." 

She  shuddered  on  remembering  the  doctor's  wrath 
when  on  her  return  from  one  of  her  trips  she  learned 
of  the  death  of  her  faithful  Karl.  To  her,  Captain  Fer- 
ragut  was  a  species  of  invulnerable  and  victorious  de- 
mon who  was  escaping  all  dangers  and  murdering  the 
servants  of  a  good  cause.  First  von  Kramer ;  now  Karl. 
...  As  it  was  necessary  for  her  to  vent  her  wrath  on 
somebody,  she  had  made  Freya  responsible  for  all  her 
misfortunes.  Through  her  she  had  known  'the  captain, 
and  had  mixed  him  up  in  the  affairs  of  the  "service." 

Thirst  for  vengeance  made  the  imposing  dame  smile 
with  a  ferocious  expression.  The  Spanish  sailor  was 
doomed  by  the  Highest  Command.  Precise  orders  had 
been  given  out  against  him.  "As  to  his  accomplices! 
.  .  ."  Freya  was  figuring  undoubtedly  among  these  ac- 
complices for  having  dared  to  defend  Ferragut,  for 
remembering  the  tragic  event  of  his  son,  for  having 
refused  to  join  the  chorus  desiring  his  extermina- 
tion. 

Weeks  afterwards  the  doctor  again  became  as  smiling 
and  as  amiable  as  in  other  times.  "My  dear  girl,  it  is 
agreed  that  you  should  take  a  trip  to  France.  We  need 
there  an  agent  who  will  keep  us  informed  of  the  traffic 
of  the  ports,  of  the  goings  and  comings  of  the  vessels 
in  order  that  our  submersibles  may  know  where  to  await 
them.  The  naval  officials  are  very  gallant,  and  a  beauti- 
ful woman  will  be  able  to  gain  their  affection." 

She  had  tried  to  disobey.  To  go  to  France!  .  .  . 
where  her  pre-war  work  was  already  known !  .  .  .  To 
go  back  to  danger  when  she  had  already  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  safe  life  of  a  neutral  country!  .  .  .  But 
her  attempts  at  resistance  were  ineffectual.  She  lacked 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      437 

sufficient  will-power;  the  "service"  had  converted  her 
into  an  automaton. 

"And  here  I  am,  suspecting  that  probably  I  am  going 
to  my  death,  but  fulfilling  the  commissions  given  to  me, 
struggling  to  be  accommodating  and  retard  in  this  way 
the  fulfillment  of  their  vengeance.  ...  I  am  like  a  con- 
demned criminal  who  knows  that  he  is  going  to  die,  and 
tries  to  make  himself  so  necessary  that  his  sentence  will 
be  delayed  for  a  few  months." 

"How  did  you  get  into  France?"  he  demanded,  pay- 
ing no  attention  to  her  doleful  tones. 

"Freya  shrugged  her  shoulders.  In  her  business  a 
change  of  nationality  was  easily  accomplished.  At  pres- 
ent she  was  passing  for  a  citizen  of  a  South  American 
republic.  The  doctor  had  arranged  all  the  papers  neces- 
sary to  enable  her  to  cross  the  frontier. 

"But  here,"  she  continued,  "my  accomplices  have  me 
more  securely  than  as  though  I  were  in  prison.  They 
have  given  me  the  means  of  coming  here  and  they  only 
can  arrange  my  departure.  I  am  absolutely  in  their 
power.  I  wonder  what  they  are  going  to  do  with 
me!  ..."  , 

At  certain  times  terror  had  suggested  most  desperate 
expedients  to  her.  She  had  thought  of  denouncing  her- 
self, of  appearing  before  the  French  authorities,  telling 
them  her  story  and  acquainting  them  with  the  secrets 
which  she  possessed.  But  her  past  filled  her  with  terror, 
so  many  were  the  evils  which  she  had  brought  against 
this  country.  Perhaps  they  might  pardon  her  life,  taking 
into  account  her  voluntary  action  in  giving  herself  up. 
But  the  prison,  the  seclusion  with  shaved  head,  dressed 
in  some  coarse  serge  frock,  condemned  to  silence,  per- 
haps suffering  hunger  and  cold,  filled  her  with  invincible 
repulsion.  .  .  .  No,  death  before  that! 

And  so  she  was  continuing  her  life  as  a  spy,  shutting 


4j8  MARE  NOSTRUM 

her  eyes  to  the  future,  living  only  in  the  present,  trying 
to  keep  from  thinking,  considering  herself  happy  if  she 
could  see  before  her  even  a  few  days  of  security. 

The  meeting  with  Ferragut  in  the  street  of  Marseilles 
had  revived  her  drooping  spirits,  arousing  new  hope. 

"Get  me  out  of  here;  keep  me  with  you.  On  your 
ship  I  could  five  as  forgotten  by  the  world  as  though 
I  were  dead.  .  .  .  And  if  my  presence  annoys  you,  take 
me  far  away  from  France,  leave  me  in  some  distant 
country  i 

She  was  anxious  to  evade  isolation  in  the  enemy's 
territory,  obliged  to  obey  her  superiors  like  a  caged 
beast  who  has  to  take  jabs  through  the  iron  grating. 
Presentiment  of  her  approaching  death  was  making  her 
tremble. 

"I  do  not  want  to  die,  Ulysses!  ...  I  am  not  old 
enough  yet  to  die.  I  adore  my  physical  charm.  I  am 
my  own  best  lover  and  I  am  terrified  at  the  thought  that 
I  might  be  shot." 

A  phosphorescent  light  gleamed  from  her  eyes  and 
her  teeth  struck  together  with  a  chattering  of  terror. 

"I  do  not  want  to  die!"  she  repeated.  There  are 
moments  in  which  I  suspect  that  they  are  following  me 
and  closing  me  in.  ...  Perhaps  they  have  recognized 
me  and  at  this  moment  are  waiting  to  surprise  me 
in  the  very  act.  ...  Do  help  me;  get  me  away  from 
here;  my  death  is  certain.  I  have  done  so  much 
harm!  .  .  * 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  as  though  calculating  all  the 
crimes  of  her  former  Hie. 

The  doctor,"  she  continued,  "depends  upon  her  con- 
suming  patriotic  enthusiasm  as  the  impetus  to  her  work. 
I  lack  her  faith.  I  am  not  a  German  woman,  and  being 
a  spy  is  very  repugnant  to  me.  ...  I  feel  ashamed  when. 
I  think  of  my  actual  life;  every  night  I  think  over  the 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DEE" 

result  of  otf  abominable  work;  I  calculate  die  use  to 
which  they  will  put  my  warning*  and  my  information; 
I  can  fee  the  torpedoed  boat*,  ,  ,  ,  I  wonder  how  many 
human  beings  nave  perished  through  my  fault!  *  *  *  1 
hare  visions;  my  conscience  torments  me.  Save  me! 
,  .  .  I  can  do  no  more,  I  feet  a  horrible  fear,  I  have 
so  much  to  expiate!  ,  ,  ," 

Little  by  little  she  had  raised  herself  from  the  dfran, 
and,  while  begging  Ferragut's  protection,  was  going 
toward  him  with  outstretched  arms;  abject,  and  yet 
at  the  same  time  caressing,  through  that  desire  of  seduc- 
tion that  always  predominated  over  all  her  acts, 

"Leave  meP  shouted  the  sailor,  "Do  not  come  near 
me,  ,  ,  ,  Do  not  touch  me!" 

He  felt  that  same  wrath  that  had  made  him  so  brutal 
in  their  interview  in  Barcelona,  He  was  greatly  exasper- 
ated at  the  tenacity  of  this  adventuress  who,  in  addition 
to  the  tragic  influence  she  had  already  exercised  upon 
his  life,  was  now  trying  to  compromise  him  still  fur- 
ther. 

But  a  sentiment  of  cold  compassion  made  him  check 
his  anger  and  speak  with  a  certain  kindness. 

If  she  needed  money  in  order  to  make  her  escape,  he 
would  give  it  to  her  without  any  haggling  whatever. 
She  could  name  the  sum.  The  captain  was  disposed  to 
satisfy  all  her  desires  except  that  of  living  with  her. 
He  would  give  her  a  substantial  amount  in  order  to  make 
her  fortune  assured  and  never  see  her  again, 

Freya  made  a  gesture  of  protest  at  the  same  time 
that  the  sailor  began  repenting  of  bis 
.  ,  .  Why  should  he  do  such  a  favor  to  a 
who  reminded  him  of  die  death  of  his  son?  ,  .  ,  What 
was  there  in  common  between  the  two?  .  .  .  Their  vile 
love-affair  in  Naples  had  been  sufficiently  paid  for  with 
his  bereavement.  ...  Let  each  one  follow  bis  own  des- 


440  MARE  NOSTRUM 

tiny;  they  belonged  to  different  worlds.  .  .  .  Was  he 
going  to  have  to  defend  himself  all  his  life  long  from 
this  insistent  charmer?  .  .  . 

Moreover,  he  was  not  at  all  sure  that  even  now  she 
was  telling  the  truth.  .  .  .  Everything  about  her  was 
false.  He  did  not  even  know  with  certainty  her  true 
name  and  her  past  existence.  .  .  . 

"Clear  out !"  he  roared  in  a  threatening  tone.  "Leave 
me  in  peace." 

He  raised  his  powerful  hand  against  her,  seeing  that 
she  was  going  to  refuse  to  obey.  He  was  going  to  pick 
her  up  roughly,  carry  her  like  a  light  bundle  outside  the 
room,  outside  the  boat,  flinging  her  away  as  though  she 
were  remorse. 

But  her  physique,  so  opulent  in  its  seductions,  now 
inspired  him  with  an  unconquerable  repugnance ;  he  was 
afraid  of  its  contact  and  wished  to  avoid  its  electric 
surprises.  .  .  .  Besides,  he  wasn't  going  to  maltreat  her 
at  every  meeting  like  a  professional  Apache  who  mixes 
love  and  blows.  He  recalled  with  disgust  his  violence  in 
Barcelona. 

And  as  Freya  instead  of  going  away  sank  back  on 
the  divan,  with  a  faintness  that  seemed  to  challenge  his 
wrath,  it  was  he  who  fled  in  order  to  bring  the  inter- 
view to  an  end. 

He  rushed  into  his  stateroom,  locking  the  door  with  a 
bang.  This  flight  brought  her  out  of  her  inertia.  She 
wished  to  follow  him  with  the  leap  of  a  young  panther, 
but  her  hands  collided  with  an  obstacle  that  became  im- 
passable, while  from  within  sounded  the  noise  of  keys 
and  bolts. 

She  pounded  the  door  desperately,  injuring  her  fists 
with  her  fruitless  efforts. 

"Ulysses,  open  it!  ...  Listen  to  me." 

In  vain  she  shrieked  as  though  she  were  giving  an 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      441 

order,  exasperated  at  finding  that  she  was  not  obeyed. 
Her  fury  spent  itself  unavailingly  against  the  solid  im- 
movability of  the  wood.  Suddenly  she  began  to  cry,  mod- 
ifying her  purpose  upon  finding  herself  as  weak  and  de- 
fenseless as  an  abandoned  creature.  All  her  life  appeared 
concentrated  in  her  tears  and  in  her  pleading  voice. 

She  passed  her  fingers  over  the  door,  groping  over  the 
moldings,  slipping  them  over  the  varnished  surface  as 
though  seeking  at  random  a  crevice,  a  hole,  something 
that  would  permit  her  to  get  to  the  man  that  was  on  the 
other  side. 

Instinctively  she  fell  upon  her  knees,  putting  her  mouth 
to  the  keyhole. 

"My  lord,  my  master!"  she  murmured  in  the  voice  of 
a  beggar.  "Open  the  door.  .  .  .  Do  not  abandon  me. 
Remember  that  I  am  going  to  my  death  if  you  do  not 
save  me." 

Ferragut  heard  her,  and,  in  order  to  evade  her  moan- 
ing, was  getting  as  near  as  possible  to  the  end  of  his 
stateroom.  Then  he  unfastened  the  round  window  that 
opened  on  the  deck,  ordering  a  seaman  to  go  after  the 
mate. 

"Don  Antoni!  Don  Antoni!"  various  voices  cried 
the  whole  length  of  the  ship. 

Toni  appeared,  putting  his  face  in  the  circular  open- 
ing only  to  receive  the  furious  vituperation  of  his  cap- 
tain. 

Why  had  they  left  him  alone  with  that  woman?  .  .  . 
They  must  take  her  off  the  boat  at  once,  even  if  it  had  to 
be  done  by  main  force.  .  .  .  He  commanded  it. 

The  mate  went  off  with  a  confounded  air,  scratching 
his  beard  as  though  he  had  received  an  order  very  diffi- 
cult to  execute. 

"Save  me,  my  love !"  the  imploring  whisper  kept  moan- 
ing. "Forget  who  I  am.  .  .  .  Think  only  of  the  one 


442  MARE  NOSTRUM 

of  Naples.  ...  Of  the  one  whom  you  knew  at  Pompeii. 
.  .  .  Remember  our  happiness  alone  together  in  the  days 
when  you  swore  never  to  abandon  me.  .  .  .  You  are  a 
gentleman!  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  ceased  for  a  moment.  Ferragut  heard  foot- 
steps on  the  other  side  of  the  door.  Toni  was  carrying 
out  his  orders. 

But  in  a  few  seconds  the  pleading  again  burst  forth, 
reconcentrated,  tenacious,  bent  only  upon  carrying  its 
point,  scorning  the  new  obstacles  about  to  interpose 
between  her  and  the  captain. 

"Do  you  hate  me  so?  .  .  .  Remember  the  bliss  that  I 
gave  you.  You  yourself  swore  to  me  that  you  had  never 
been  so  happy.  I  can  revive  that  past.  You  do  not 
know  of  what  things  I  am  capable  in  order  to  make 
your  existence  sweet.  .  .  .  And  you  wish  to  lose  and  to 
ruin  me!  .  .  ." 

A  clash  against  the  door  was  heard,  a  struggle  of 
bodies  that  were  pushing  each  other,  the  friction  of  a 
scuffle  against  the  wood. 

Toni  had  entered  followed  by  Caragol. 

"Enough  of  that  now,  Sefiora,"  said  the  mate  in  a 
grim  voice  in  order  to  hide  his  emotion.  "Can't  you  see 
that  the  captain  doesn't  want  to  see  you  ?  .  .  .  Don't  you 
understand  that  you  are  disturbing  him?  .  .  .  Come, 
now.  .  .  .  Get  up !" 

He  tried  to  help  her  to  stand  up,  separating  her  mouth 
from  the  keyhole.  But  Freya  repelled  the  vigorous  sailor 
with  facility.  He  appeared  to  be  lacking  in  force,  with- 
out the  courage  to  repeat  his  rough  action.  The  beauty 
of  this  woman  made  him  afraid.  He  was  still  thrilled 
by  the  contact  of  her  firm  body  which  he  had  just  touched 
during  their  short  struggle.  His  drowsing  virtue  had 
suffered  the  torments  of  a  fruitless  resurrection.  "Ah, 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      443 

no!  ...  Let  somebody  else  take  charge  of  putting  her 
off/' 

"Ulysses,  they're  taking  me  away!"  she  cried,  again 
putting  her  mouth  to  the  keyhole.  "And  you,  my  love, 
will  you  permit  it?  .  .  .  You  who  used  to  love  me 
so?  .  .  ." 

After  this  desperate  call,  she  remained  silent  for  a 
few  instants.  The  door  maintained  its  immobility;  be- 
hind it  there  seemed  to  be  no  living  being. 

"Farewell!"  she  continued  in  a  low  voice,  her  throat 
choked  with  sobs,  "you  will  see  me  no  more.  ...  I 
am  soon  going  to  die ;  my  heart  tells  me  so.  ...  To  die 
because  of  you!  .  .  .  Perhaps  some  day  you  will  weep 
on  recalling  that  you  might  have  saved  me." 

Some  one  had  intervened  to  force  Freya  from  her 
rebellious  standstill.  It  was  Caragol,  solicited  by  the 
mate's  imploring  eyes. 

His  great  hairy  hands  helped  her  to  arise,  without 
making  her  repeat  the  protest  that  had  repelled  Toni. 
Conquered  and  bursting  into  tears,  she  appeared  to  yield 
to  the  paternal  aid  and  counsel  of  the  cook. 

"Up  now,  my  good  lady!"  said  Caragol.  "A  little 
more  courage  and  don't  cry  any  more.  .  .  .  There  is 
some  consolation  for  everything  in  this  world." 

In  his  bulky  right  hand  he  imprisoned  her  two,  and, 
passing  his  other  arm  around  her  waist,  he  was  guid- 
ing her  little  by  little  toward  the  exit  from  the  salon. 

"Trust  in  God,"  he  added.  "Why  do  you  seek  the 
captain  who  has  his  own  wife  ashore?  .  .  .  Other  men 
who  are  free  are  still  in  existence,  and  you  could  make 
some  arrangement  with  them  without  falling  into  mortal 
sin." 

Freya  was  not  listening  to  him.  Near  the  door  she 
again  turned  her  head,  beginning  her  return  toward  the 
captain's  stateroom. 


444  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"Ulysses!  •  -  -  Ulysses!"  she  cried. 

"Trust  in  God,  Senora,"  said  Caragol  again,  while  he 
was  pushing  her  along  with  his  flabby  abdomen  and 
shaggy  breast. 

A  charitable  idea  was  taking  possession  of  his  thoughts. 
He  had  the  remedy  for  the  grief  of  this  handsome 
.woman  whose  desperation  but  made  her  more  inter- 
esting. 

"Come  along,  Seiiora.  .  .  .  Leave  it  to  me,  my  child." 

Upon  reaching  the  deck  he  continued  driving  her 
towards  his  dominions.  Freya  found  herself  seated  in 
the  galley,  without  knowing  just  exactly  where  she  was. 
Through  her  tears  she  saw  this  obese  old  man  of  sacer- 
dotal benevolence,  going  from  side  to  side  gathering  bot- 
tles together  and  mixing  liquids,  stirring  the  spoon 
around  in  a  glass  with  a  joyous  tinkling. 

"Drink  without  fear.  .  .  .  There  is  no  trouble  that 
resists  this  medicine." 

The  cook  offered  her  a  glass  and  she,  vanquished, 
drank  and  drank,  making  a  wry  face  because  of  the  alco- 
holic intensity  of  the  liquid.  She  continued  weeping  at 
the  same  time  that  her  mouth  was  relishing  the  heavy 
sweetness.  Her  tears  were  mingled  with  the  beverage 
that  was  slipping  between  her  lips. 

A  comfortable  warmth  began  making  itself  ,felt  in  her 
stomach,  drying  up  the  moisture  in  her  eyes  and  giving 
new  color  to  her  cheeks.  Caragol  was  keeping  up  his 
chat,  satisfied  with  the  outcome  of  his  handiwork,  making 
signs  to  the  glowering  Toni, — who  was  passing  and  re- 
passing  before  the  door,  with  the  vehement  desire  of 
seeing  the  intruder  march  away,  and  disappear  forever. 

"Don't  cry  any  more,  my  daughter.  .  .  .  Cristo  del 
TGrao!  The  very  idea!  A  lady  as  pretty  as  you,  who 
can  find  sweethearts  by  the  dozen,  crying!  .  .  .  Believe 
me ;  find  somebody  else.  This  world  is  just  full  of  men 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      445 

with  nothing  to  do.  .  .  .  And  always  for  every  disap- 
pointment that  you  suffer,  have  recourse  to  my  cordial. 
...  I  am  going  to  give  you  the  recipe." 

He  was  about  to  note  down  on  a  bit  of  paper  the 
proportions  of  brandy  and  sugar,  when  she  arose,  sud- 
denly invigorated,  looking  around  her  in  wonder.  .  .  . 
But  where  was  she?  What  had  she  to  do  with  this 
good,  kind,  half-dressed  man,  who  was  talking  to  her  as 
though  he  were  her  father  ?  .  .  . 

"Thanks!  Many  thanks!"  she  said  on  leaving  the 
kitchen. 

Then  on  deck  she  stopped,  opening  her  gold-mesh 
bag,  in  order  to  take  out  the  little  glass  and  powder  box. 
In  the  beveled  edge  of  the  oval  glass  she  saw  the  faun- 
like  countenance  of  Toni  hovering  behind  her  with 
glances  of  impatience. 

"Tell  Captain  Ferragut  that  I  shall  never  trouble 
him  again.  .  .  .  All  has  ended.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  may 
hear  me  spoken  of  some  time,  but  he  will  never  see  me 
again/' 

And  she  left  the  boat  without  turning  her  head,  with 
quickened  step  as  though,  fired  by  a  sudden  suggestion, 
she  were  hastening  to  put  it  into  effect. 

Toni  ran  also,  but  toward  Ulysses'  stateroom  window. 

"Has  she  gone  yet?"  asked  the  captain  impatiently. 

The  mate  nodded  his  head.  She  had  promised  not 
to  return. 

"Be  it  so!"  said  Ferragut. 

Toni  experienced  the  same  desire.  Would  to  God 
they  might  never  again  see  this  blonde  who  always 
brought  them  misfortune!  .  .  . 

In  the  days  following,  the  captain  rarely  left  his  ship. 
He  did  not  wish  to  run  the  risk  of  meeting  her  in  the 
city  streets  for  he  was  a  little  doubtful  of  the  hardness  of 
his  character.  He  feared  that  upon  seeing  her  again, 


446  MARE  NOSTRUM 

weeping  and  pleading,  he  might  yield  to  her  beseeching. 

Ulysses*  uneasiness  vanished  as  soon  as  the  loading  of 
the  vessel  was  finished.  This  trip  was  going  to  be  shorter 
than  the  others.  The  Mare  Nostrum  went  to  Corfu 
with  war  material  for  the  Serbs  who  were  reorganizing 
their  battalions  destined  for  Salonica. 

On  the  return  trip  Ferragut  was  attacked  by  the  en- 
emy. One  day  at  dawn  just  as  he  mounted  the  bridge 
to  relieve  Toni,  the  two  spied  at  the  same  time 
the  tangible  form  that  they  were  always  seeing  in  im- 
agination. Within  the  circle  of  their  glasses  there 
framed  itself  the  end  of  a  stick,  black  and  upright,  that 
was  cutting  the  waters  rosy  in  the  sunrise,  leaving  a  wake 
of  foam. 

"Submarine !"  shouted  the  captain. 

Toni  said  nothing,  but  shoving  aside  the  helmsman  with 
a  stroke  of  his  paw,  he  grasped  the  wheel,  making  the 
boat  swerve  in  another  direction.  The  movement  was 
opportune.  Only  a  few  seconds  had  passed  by  when 
there  began  to  be  seen  upon  the  water  a  black  back  of 
dizzying  speed  headed  directly  for  the  steamer. 

"Torpedo !"  shouted  the  captain. 

The  anxious  waiting  lasted  but  a  few  seconds.  The 
projectile,  hidden  in  the  water,  passed  some  six  yards 
from  the  stern,  losing  itself  in  space.  Had  it  not  been 
for  Toni's  rapid  tacking,  the  boat  would  have  been  hit 
squarely  in  the  side. 

Through  the  speaking  tube  connecting  with  the  en- 
gine-room the  captain  shouted  energetic  orders  to  put 
on  full  speed.  Meanwhile  the  mate,  clamped  to  the 
wheel,  ready  to  die  rather  than  leave  it,  was  directing 
the  boat  in  zigzags  so  as  not  to  offer  a  fixed  point  to 
the  submarine. 

All  the  crew  were  watching  from  the  rail  the  dis- 
tant and  insignificant  upright  periscope.  The  third  of- 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      447 

ficer  had  rushed  out  of  his  stateroom,  almost  naked, 
rubbing  his  sleepy  eyes.  Caragol  was  in  the  stern, 
his  loose  shirt-tail  flapping  away  as  he  held  one  hand 
to  his  eyebrows  like  a  visor. 

"I  see  it!  ...  I  see  it  perfectly.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  bandit, 
the  heretic !" 

And  he  extended  his  threatening  fist  toward  a  point 
in  the  horizon  exactly  opposite  to  the  one  upon  which  the 
periscope  was  appearing. 

Through  the  blue  circle  of  the  glasses  Ferragut  saw 
this  tube  climbing  up  and  up,  growing  larger  and  larger. 
It  was  no  longer  a  stick,  it  was  a  tower;  and  from  be- 
neath this  tower  was  coming  up  on  the  sea  a  base  of 
steel  spouting  cascades  of  smoke, — a  gray  whale-back 
that  appeared  little  by  little  to  be  taking  the  form  of  a 
sailing  vessel,  long  and  sharp-pointed. 

A  flag  was  suddenly  run  up  upon  the  submarine. 
Ulysses  recognized  it. 

"They  are  going  to  shell  us !"  he  yelled  to  Toni.  "It's 
useless  to  keep  up  the  zigzagging.  The  thing  to  do  now 
is  to  outspeed  them,  to  go  forward  in  a  straight  line." 

The  mate,  skillful  helmsman  that  he  was,  obeyed  the 
captain.  The  hull  vibrated  under  the  force  of  the  en- 
gines taxed  to  their  utmost.  Their  prow  was  cutting 
the  waters  with  increasing  noise.  The  submersible  upon 
augmenting  its  volume  by  emersion  appeared,  neverthe- 
less, to  be  falling  behind  on  the  horizon.  Two  streaks 
of  foam  began  to  spring  up  on  both  sides  of  its  prow. 
It  was  running  with  all  its  possible  surface  speed;  but 
the  Mare  Nostrum  was  also  going  at  the  utmost  limit  of 
its  engines  and  the  distance  was  widening  between  the 
two  boats. 

"They  are  shooting  1"  said  Ferragut  with  the  glasses  to 
his  eyes. 

A  column  of  water  spouted  near  the  prow.    That  was 


448  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  only  thing  that  Caragol  was  able  to  see  clearly  and 
he  burst  into  applause  with  a  childish  joy.  Then  he 
ivaved  on  high  his  palm-leaf  hat.  "Viva  el  Santo 
Crist o  del  Grao!  .  .  ." 

Other  projectiles  were  falling  around  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum, spattering  it  with  jets  of  foam.  Suddenly  it  trem- 
bled from  poop  to  prow.  Its  plates  trembled  with  the 
vibration  of  an  explosion. 

"  "That's  nothing!"  yelled  the  captain,  bending  himself 
double  over  the  bridge  in  order  to  see  better  the  hull  of 
his  ship.  "A  shell  in  the  stern.  Steady,  Toni !  .  .  ." 

The  mate,  always  grasping  the  wheel,  kept  turning  his 
head  from  time  to  time  to  measure  the  distance  separating 
them  from  the  submarine.  Every  time  that  he  saw  an 
aquatic  column  of  spray,  forced  up  by  a  projectile,  he 
would  repeat  the  same  counsel. 

"Lie  down,  Ulysses!  .  .  .  They  are  going  to  fire  at 
the  bridge!" 

This  was  a  recollection  of  his  far-away  youth  when, 
as  a  contrabandist,  he  used  to  stretch  himself  flat  on 
the  deck  of  his  bark,  manipulating  the  wheel  and  the 
Bail  under  the  fire  of  the  custom-house  officers  on  watch. 
He  feared  for  the  life  of  his  captain  while  he  was  stand- 
ing, constantly  offering  himself  to  the  shots  of  the  en- 
tmy. 

Ferragut  was  storming  from  side  to  side,  cursing  his 
lack  of  means  for  returning  the  aggression.  "This  will 
never  happen  another  time!  .  .  .  They  won't  get  an- 
other chance  to  amuse  themselves  chasing  me!" 

A  second  projectile  opened  another  breach  in  the  poop. 
"If  it  only  won't  hit  the  engines !"  the  captain  was  think- 
ing. After  that  the  Mare  Nostrum  received  no  more 
damage,  the  following  shots  merely  raising  up  columns 
of  water  in  the  steamer's  wake.  Every  time  now,  these 
white  phantasms  leaped  up  further  und  further  away. 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      449 

Although  out  of  the  range  of  the  enemy's  gun,  it  con- 
tinued shooting  and  shooting  uselessly.  Finally  the  fir- 
ing ceased  and  the  submarine  disappeared  from  the  view 
of  the  glasses  and  completely  submerged,  tired  of  vain 
pursuit. 

"That'll  never  happen  again!"  the  captain  kept  re- 
peating. "They'll  never  attack  me  another  time  with 
impunity !" 

Then  it  occurred  to  him  that  this  submarine  had  at- 
tack him  knowing  just  who  he  was.  On  the  side  of 
his  vessel  were  painted  the  colors  of  Spain.  At  the 
first  shot  from  the  gun,  the  third  officer  had  hoisted 
the  flag,  but  the  shots  did  not  cease  on  that  account. 
They  had  wished  to  sink  it  "without  leaving  any 
trace."  He  believed  that  Freya,  in  her  relations  with 
the  directors  of  the  submarine  campaign,  must  have  ad- 
vised them  of  his  trip. 

"Ah,  .  .  .  tall    If  I  meet  her  another  time!  .  .  ." 

He  had  to  remain  several  weeks  in  Marseilles  while 
the  damage  to  his  steamer  was  being  repaired. 

As  Toni  lacked  occupation  during  this  enforced  idle- 
ness, he  accompanied  him  many  times  on  his  strolls. 
They  liked  to  seat  themselves  on  the  terrace  of  a  cafe 
in  order  to  comment  upon  the  picturesque  differences 
in  the  cosmopolitan  crowd. 

"Look;  people  from  our  own  country!"  said  the  cap- 
tain one  evening. 

And  he  pointed  to  three  seamen  drawn  into  the  cur- 
rent of  different  uniforms  and  types  of  various  races 
flowing  familiarly  around  the  tables  of  the  cafe. 

He  had  recognized  them  by  their  silk  caps  with  visors, 
their  blue  jackets  and  their  heavy  obesity  of  Mediter- 
ranean sailors  enjoying  a  certain  prosperity.  They  must 
be  skippers  of  small  boats. 

As  though  Ferragut's  looks  and  gestures  had  mys- 


450  MARE  NOSTRUM 

teriously  notified  them,  the  three  turned,  fixing  their 
eyes  on  the  captain.  Then  they  began  to  discuss  among 
themselves  with  a  vehemence  which  made  it  easy  to 
guess  their  words. 

"It  is  he!  .  .  ."    "No,  it  isn't!  .  .  ." 

Those  men  knew  him  but  couldn't  believe  that  they 
were  really  seeing  him. 

They  went  a  little  way  off  with  marked  indecisfon,. 
turning  repeatedly  to  look  at  him  once  more.  In  a  few 
moments  one  of  them,  the  oldest,  returned,  approaching 
the  table  timidly. 

"Excuse  me,  but  aren't  you  Captain  Ferragut?  .  .  ." 
He  asked  this  question  in  Valencian,  with  his  right  hand 
at  his  cap,  ready  to  take  it  off. 

Ulysses  stopped  his  salutation  and  offered  him  a  seat. 
Yes,  he  was  Ferragut.  What  did  he  want?  .  .  . 

The  man  refused  to  sit  down.  He  wished  to  tell  him 
privately  two  special  things.  When  the  captain  pre- 
sented to  him  his  mate  as  a  man  in  whom  they  could 
have  complete  confidence,  he  then  sat  down.  The  two 
companions,  breaking  through  the  human  current,  were 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  turning  their  backs 
to  the  cafe. 

He  was  skipper  of  a  small  craft;  Ferragut  had  not 
been  mistaken.  He  was  speaking  slowly,  as  though  taken 
up  with  his  final  revelation  to  which  all  that  he  was 
saying  was  merely  an  introduction. 

"The  times  are  not  so  bad.  .  .  .  Money  is  to  be 
gained  in  the  sea ;  more  than  ever.  I  am  from  Valencia. 
.  .  .  We  have  brought  three  boats  from  there  with  wine 
and  rice.  A  good  trip,  but  it  was  necessary  to  navigate 
close  to  the  coast,  following  the  curve  of  the  gulf,  with- 
out venturing  to  pass  from  cape  to  cape  for  fear  of  the 
submarine.  ...  I  have  met  a  submarine." 

Ulysses  suspected  that  these  last  words  contained  the 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      451 

real  motive  which  had  made  the  man,  overcoming  his 
timidity,  venture  to  address  him. 

"It  was  not  on  this  trip  nor  on  the  one  before,"  con- 
tinued the  man  of  the  sea.  "I  met  it  two  days  before 
last  Christmas.  In  the  winter  I  devote  myself  to  fishing. 
I  am  the  owner  of  a  pair  of  fishing  smacks.  .  .  .  We 
were  near  the  island  Columbretas  when  suddenly  we 
saw  a  submarine  appear  near  us.  The  Germans  did 
not  do  us  any  harm;  the  only  vexatious  thing  was  that 
we  had  to  give  them  a  part  of  our  fish  for  what  they 
wished  to  give  us.  Then  they  ordered  me  to  come 
aboard  the  deck  of  a  submarine  in  order  to  meet  the  com- 
mander. He  was  a  young  fellow  who  could  talk  Cas- 
tilian  as  I  have  heard  it  spoken  over  there  in  the  Ameri- 
cas when  I  was  a  youngster  sailing  on  a  brigantine." 

The  man  stopped,  rather  reserved,  as  though  doubtful 
whether  to  continue  his  story. 

"And  what  did  the  German  say?"  asked  Ferragut,  in 
order  to  encourage  him  to  continue. 

"Upon  learning  that  I  was  a  Valencian,  he  asked  me 
if  I  was  acquainted  with  you.  He  asked  me  about  your 
steamer,  wanting  to  know  if  it  generally  sailed  along 
the  Spanish  coast.  I  replied  that  I  knew  you  by  name, 
no  more,  and  then  he  .  .  ." 

The  captain  encouraged  him  with  a  smile  on  seeing 
that  he  was  beginning  to  hesitate  again. 

"He  spoke  badly  about  me.    Isn't  that  so?  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  sir;  very  badly.  He  used  ugly  words.  He  said 
that  he  had  an  account  to  adjust  with  you  and  that  he 
wished  to  be  the  first  one  to  meet  you.  According  to 
what  he  gave  me  to  understand,  the  other  submarines 
are  hunting  for  you,  too.  ...  It  is  an  order  without 
doubt." 

Ferragut  and  his  mate  exchanged  a  long  look.  Mean- 
while the  captain  continued  his  explanations. 


452  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  two  friends  who  were  waiting  a  few  steps  off 
had  seen  the  captain  in  Valencia  and  Barcelona  many 
times.  One  of  them  had  recognized  him  immediately; 
but  the  other  was  doubtful  whether  it  might  be  he,  and, 
as  a  matter  of  conscience,  the  old  skipper  had  come  back 
to  give  him  this  warning. 

"We  countrymen  must  help  one  another.  .  .  .  These 
are  bad  times!"  '< 

Seeing  him  standing,  his  two  comrades  now  came  up 
to  Ferragut.  "What  would  you  like  to  drink?"  He  in- 
vited them  to  seat  themselves  at  the  table,  but  they  were 
in  a  hurry.  They  were  on  their  way  to  see  the  con- 
signees of  their  boats. 

"Now  you  know  it,  Captain,"  said  the  skipper  on 
bidding  him  farewell.  "These  demons  are  after  you 
in  order  to  pay  you  up  for  something  in  the  past.  You 
know  what  for.  ...  Be  very  careful!" 

The  rest  of  the  evening  Ferragut  and  Toni  talked 
very  little  together.  The  two  had  exactly  the  same 
thought  in  their  brain,  but  avoided  putting  it  in  shape 
because,  as  energetic  men,  they  feared  that  some  cow- 
ardly construction  might  be  put  upon  such  thoughts. 

At  nightfall  when  they  returned  to  the  steamer  the 
pilot  ventured  to  break  the  silence. 

"Why  do  you  not  quit  the  sea?  .  .  .  You  are  rich. 
Besides,  they'll  give  you  whatever  you  ask  for  your 
ship.  To-day  boats  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold." 

Ulysses  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  wasn't  thinking 
of  money.  What  good  would  that  do  him?  ...  He 
wanted  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  life  on  the  sea,  giving  aid 
to  the  enemies  of  his  enemies.  He  had  a  vengeance  to 
fulfill.  .  .  .  Living  on  land,  he  would  be  abandoning 
this  vengeance,  though  remembering  his  son  with  even 
greater  intensity. 

The  mate  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      453 

"The  enemies  are  so  many/'  he  then  said  in  dismay. 
"We  are  so  insignificant !  .  .  .  We  only  escaped  by  a  few 
yards  being  sent  to  the  bottom  on  our  last  trip.  What 
has  not  happened  yet  will  surely  happen  some  day.  .  .  . 
They  have  sworn  to  do  away  with  you;  and  they  are 
many  .  .  .  and  they  are  at  war.  What  could  we  do, 
we  poor  peaceable  sailors?  .  .  ." 

Toni  did  not  add  anything  further  but  his  silent 
thoughts  were  divined  by  Ulysses. 

He  was  thinking  about  his  family  over  there  in  the 
Marina,  enduring  an  existence  of  continual  anxiety  while 
he  was  aboard  a  vessel  for  which  irresistible  menace  was 
lying  in  wait.  He  was  thinking  also  of  the  wives  and 
mothers  of  all  the  men  of  the  crew  who  were  suffering 
jthe  same  anguish.  And  Toni  was  asking  himself  for 
the  first  time  whether  Captain  Ferragut  had  the  right  to 
drag  them  all  to  a  sure  death  just  because  of  his  vengeful 
and  crazy  stubbornness. 

"No ;  I  have  not  the  right/'  Ulysses  told  himself  men- 
tally. 

But  at  the  same  time  his  mate,  repentant  of  his  former 
reflection,  was  affirming  in  a  loud  voice  with  heroic  sim- 
plicity : 

"If  I  counsel  you  to  retire,  it  is  for  your  own  good; 
don't  think  it  is  because  I  am  afraid.  ...  I  will  follow 
you  wherever  you  sail.  I've  got  to  die  some  time  and 
it  would  be  far  better  that  it  should  be  in  the  sea.  The 
only  thing  that  troubles  me  is  worrying  about  my  wife 
and  children." 

The  captain  continued  walking  in  silence  and,  upon 
reaching  his  ship,  spoke  with  brevity.  "I  was  thinking 
of  doing  something  that  perhaps  you  would  all  like. 
Before  next  week  your  future  will  have  been  decided." 

He  passed  the  following  day  on  land.  Twice  he  re- 
turned with  some  gentlemen  who  examined  the  steamer 


454  MARE  NOSTRUM 

minutely,  going  down  into  the  engine  room  and  the  holds. 
Some  of  these  visitors  appeared  to  be  experts  in  mat- 
ters pertaining  to  the  sea. 

"He  wants  to  sell  the  boat,"  said  Toni  to  himself. 

And  the  mate  began  to  repent  of  his  counsels.  Aban» 
don  the  Mare  Nostrum,  the  best  of  all  the  ships  on  which 
he  had  ever  sailed!  ...  He  accused  himself  of  coward' 
ice,  believing  that  it  was  he  who  had  impelled  the  cap- 
tain to  reach  this  decision.  What  were  the  two  going  to 
do  on  land  when  the  steamer  was  the  property  of  others? 
.  .  .  Would  he  not  have  to  sail  on  an  inferior  boat,  run- 
ning the  same  risks  ?  .  .  .  He  decided  to  undo  his  work, 
and  was  about  to  counsel  Ferragut  again,  declaring  that 
his  ideas  were  mere  conjecture  and  that  he  must  continue 
living  as  he  was  at  present,  when  the  captain  gave  th« 
order  for  departure.  The  repairs  were  not  yet  entirely 
completed. 

"We  are  going  to  Brest/'  said  Ferragut  laconically, 
"It's  the  last  trip." 

And  the  steamer  put  to  sea  without  cargo  as  though 
going  to  fulfill  a  special  mission. 

"The  last  trip!"  Toni  admired  his  ship  as  though 
seeing  it  under  a  new  light,  discovering  beauties 
hitherto  unsuspected,  lamenting  like  a  lover  the  days 
that  were  running  by  so  swiftly  and  the  sad  moment  of 
separation  that  was  approaching. 

Never  had  the  mate  been  so  active  in  his  vigilance. 
His  seaman's  superstition  filled  him  with  a  certain  ter- 
ror. Just  because  it  was  the  last  voyage  something  hor- 
rible might  occur  to  them.  He  paced  the  bridge  for  entire 
days,  examining  the  sea,  fearing  the  apparition  of  a  peri- 
scope, varying  the  course  in  agreement  with  the  captain, 
who  was  seeking  less-frequented  waters  where  the  sub- 
marines could  not  expect  to  find  any  prey. 

He  breathed  more  freely  upon  entering  one  of  the 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      455 

three  semi-circular  sea-ledges  which  enclose  the  road- 
stead of  Brest.  When  they  were  anchored  in  this  bit 
of  sea,  foggy  and  insecure,  surrounded  with  black  moun- 
tains, Toni  awaited  with  anxiety  the  result  of  the  cap- 
tain's excursions  ashore. 

During  the  entire  course  of  the  trip  Ferragut  had  not 
been  inclined  to  be  confidential.  The  mate  only  knew 
that  this  voyage  to  Brest  was  the  last.  Who  was  going 
to  be  the  new  owner  of  the  Mare  Nostrum?  .  .  . 

One  rainy  evening,  upon  returning  to  the  boat,  Ulysses 
gave  orders  that  they  should  hunt  up  the  mate  while  he 
was  shaking  out  his  waterproof  in  the  entry  to  the  state- 
room. 

The  roadstead  was  dark  with  its  foamy  waves,  choppy 
and  thick,  leaping  like  sheep.  The  men-of-war  were  send- 
ing out  smoke  from  their  triple  chimneys  ready  to  con- 
front the  bad  weather  with  their  steam  engines. 

The  ship,  anchored  in  the  commercial  port,  was  danc- 
ing restlessly,  tugging  at  its  hawsers,  with  a  mournful 
croaking.  All  the  nearby  boats  were  tossing  in  the  same 
way,  just  as  though  they  were  out  on  the  high  seas. 

Toni  entered  the  saloon,  and  one  look  at  the  captain's 
face  made  him  suspect  that  the  moment  for  knowing  the 
truth  had  arrived.  Avoiding  his  glance,  Ulysses  told  him 
curtly,  trying  to  evade  by  the  conciseness  of  his  language 
all  signs  of  emotion. 

He  had  sold  the  ship  to  the  French : — a  rapid  and 
magnificent  piece  of  business.  .  .  .  Whoever  would  have 
said  when  he  bought  the  Mare  Nostrum  that  some  day 
they  would  give  him  such  an  enormous  sum  for  it?  ... 
In  no  country  could  they  find  any  vessels  for  sale.  The 
invalids  of  the  sea,  rusting  in  the  harbors  as  old  iron, 
were  now  bringing  fabulous  prices.  Boats,  aground  and 
forgotten  on  remote  coasts,  were  placed  afloat  for  en- 
terprises that  were  gaining  millions  by  this  resurrection. 


456  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Others,  submerged  in  tropical  seas,  had  been  brought 
up  to  the  surface  after  a  ten  years'  stay  under  the  water, 
renewing  their  voyages.  Every  month  a  new  shipyard 
sprang  into  existence,  but  the  world  war  could  never  find 
enough  vessels  for  the  transportation  of  food  and  instru- 
ments of  death. 

Without  any  bargaining  whatever,  they  had  given  Fer- 
ragut  the  price  that  he  had  exacted;  fifteen  hundred 
francs  per  ton, — four  million  and  a  half  for  the  boat. 
And  to  this  must  be  added  the  nearly  two  millions  that 
it  had  gained  in  its  voyages  since  the  beginning  of  the 
war. 

"I  am  rotten  with  money/'  concluded  the  captain. 

And  he  said  it  sadly,  remembering  with  a  homesick 
longing  the  days  of  peace  when  he  was  wrestling  with 
the  problems  of  a  badly  paying  business.  But  then  his 
son  was  living.  Of  what  avail  was  all  this  wealth  that 
was  assaulting  him  on  all  sides  as  though  it  were  going 
to  crush  him  with  its  weight?  .  .  .  His  wife  would  be 
able  to  lavish  money  with  full  hands  on  works  of  char- 
ity; she  would  be  able  to  give  her  nieces  the  dowry  suit- 
able for  daughters  of  high-born  personages.  .  .  .  Noth- 
ing more!  Neither  he  nor  she  could  for  one  moment 
resuscitate  their  past.  These  useless  riches  could  only 
bring  him  a  certain  tranquillity  in  thinking  of  the  future 
of  his  wife,  who  was  his  entire  family.  She  was  at  lib- 
erty henceforth  to  dispose  freely  of  her  existence.  Cinta, 
on  his  death,  would  fall  heir  to  millions. 

In  order  to  evade  the  emotions  of  farewell,  he  spoke 
to  Toni  very  authoritatively.  A  chart  of  the  Atlantic 
was  lying  on  the  table  and  with  his  index  finger  he 
marked  out  the  mate's  course ;  this  course  was  not  across 
the  sea,  but  far  from  it,  following  an  inland  route. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "the  French  are  coming  to 
take  possession.  You  may  leave  whenever  you  please, 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      457 

but  it  will  be  convenient  to  have  you  go  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. .  .  ." 

He  explained  his  return  trip  to  Toni,  just  as  though  he 
were  giving  him  a  lesson  in  geography.  This  sea-rover 
became  timid  and  downhearted  when  they  talked  to  him 
about  railroad  time-tables  and  changing  trains. 

"Here  is  Brest.  .  .  .  Follow  this  line  to  Bordeaux; 
from  Bordeaux  to  the  frontier.  And  once  there,  turn 
to  Barcelona  or  go  to  Madrid,  and  from  Madrid  to 
Valencia." 

The  mate  contemplated  the  map  silently,  scratching 
his  beard.  Then  he  raised  his  canine  eyes  slowly  until 
he  fixed  them  upon  Ulysses. 

"And  you?"  he  asked. 

"I  remain  here.  The  captain  of  the  Mare  Nostrum, 
has  sold  himself  with  his  vessel." 

Toni  made  a  distressed  gesture.  For  a  moment  he 
almost  believed  that  Ferragut  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him 
and  was  discontented  with  his  services.  But  the  captain 
hastened  to  explain  further. 

Because  the  Mare  Nostrum  belonged  to  a  neutral  coun- 
try, it  could  not  be  sold  to  one  of  the  belligerent  nations 
while  hostilities  lasted.  Because  of  this,  he  had  trans- 
ferred it  in  a  way  that  would  not  make  it  necessary  to 
change  the  flag.  Although  no  longer  its  owner,  he  would 
stay  on  board  as  its  captain,  and  the  ship  would  con- 
tinue to  be  Spanish  the  same  as  before. 

"And  why  must  I  go  away?"  asked  Toni  in  a  tremu- 
lous tone,  believing  himself  overlooked. 

"We  are  going  to  sail  armed,"  replied  Ulysses  ener- 
getically. "I  have  made  the  sale  on  that  account  more 
than  for  the  money.  We  are  going  to  carry  a  quickfirer 
at  the  stern,  wireless  installation,  a  crew  of  men  from 
the  naval  reserves, — everything  necessary  to  defend  our- 
selves. We  shall  make  our  voyages  without  hunting  for 


458  MARE  NOSTRUM 

the  enemy,  carrying  freight  as  before ;  but  if  the  enemy 
comes  out  to  attack  us,  it  will  find  some  one  who  will  an- 


swer." 


He  was  ready  to  die,  if  that  was  to  be  his  fate,  but 
attacking  whoever  attacked  him. 

"And  may  I  not  go,  too  ?"  persisted  the  pilot. 

"No;  back  of  you  there  is  a  family  that  needs  you. 
You  do  not  belong  to  a  nation  at  war,  nor  have  you 
anything  to  avenge.  ...  I  am  the  only  one  of  the  former 
crew  that  remains  on  board.  All  the  rest  of  you  are  to 
go.  The  captain  has  a  reason  for  exposing  his  life,  and 
he  does  not  wish  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  dragging 
all  of  you  into  his  last  adventure." 

Toni  understood  that  it  would  be  useless  to  insist. 
His  eyes  became  moist.  .  .  .  Was  it  possible  that  within 
a  few  hours  they  would  be  bidding  each  other  a  last 
good-by?  .  .  .  Should  he  never  again  see  Ulysses  and 
the  ship  on  which  he  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  his 
past?  .  .  . 

In  order  to  maintain  his  serenity,  the  captain  tried  to 
bring  this  interview  promptly  to  an  end. 

"The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning/'  he  said,  "you 
will  call  the  crew  together.  Adjust  all  the  accounts. 
Each  one  must  receive  as  an  extra  bonus  a  year's  pay. 
I  wish  them  to  have  pleasant  memories  of  Captain  Fer- 
ragut." 

The  mate  attempted  to  oppose  this  generosity  by  a 
remnant  of  the  keen  interest  that  the  business  affairs  of 
the  boat  had  always  inspired  in  him.  But  his  superior 
officer  would  not  let  him  continue. 

"I  am  rotten  with  money,  I  tell  you/'  he  repeated  as 
though  uttering  a  complaint.  "I  have  more  than  I  need. 
...  I  can  do  foolish  things  with  it  if  I  wish  to." 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  looked  his  mate  square 
in  the  face. 


'FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      459 

KAs  for  you,"  he  continued,  "I  have  thought  what  you 
must  do.  ...  Here,  take  this !" 

He  gave  him  a  sealed  envelope  and  the  pilot  mechani- 
cally tried  to  open  it. 

"No,  don't  open  it  at  present.  You  will  find  out  what 
it  contains  when  you  are  in  Spain.  Within  it  is  enclosed 
the  future  of  your  own  folks." 

Toni  looked  with  astonished  eyes  at  the  light  scrap  of 
paper  which  he  held  between  his  fingers. 

"I  know  you,"  continued  Ferragut.  "You  are  going 
to  protest  at  the  quantity.  What  to  me  is  insignificant, 
to  you  will  appear  excessive.  .  .  .  Do  not  open  the  en- 
velope until  you  are  in  our  country.  In  it  you  will  find 
the  name  of  the  bank  to  which  you  must  go.  I  wish 
you  to  be  the  richest  man  in  your  village  that  your  sons 
may  remember  Captain  Ferragut  when  he  is  dead." 

The  mate  made  a  gesture  of  protest  before  this  pos- 
sible death,  and  at  the  same  time  rubbed  his  eyes  as 
though  he  felt  in  them  an  intolerable  itching. 

Ulysses  continued  his  instructions.  He  had  rashly 
sold  the  home  of  his  ancestors  there  in  the  Marina,  the 
vineyards, — all  his  legacy  from  the  Triton,  when  he  had 
acquired  the  Mare  Nostrum.  It  was  his  wish  that  Toni 
should  redeem  the  property,  installing  himself  in  the 
ancient  domicile  of  the  Ferraguts. 

He  had  money  to  spare  for  that  and  much  more. 

"I  have  no  children  and  I  like  to  feel  that  yours  are 
occupying  the  house  that  was  mine.  .  .  .  Perhaps  when 
I  get  to  be  an  old  man — if  they  do  not  kill  me,  I  will 
come  to  spend  the  summers  with  you.  Courage  now, 
Toni!  .  .  .  We  shall  yet  go  fishing  together,  as  I  used 
to  go  fishing  with  my  uncle,  the  doctor." 

But  the  mate  did  not  regain  his  spirits  on  hearing 
these  optimistic  affirmations.  His  eyes  were  swollen 
with  tears  that  sparkled  in  the  corners  of  his  eyes.  He 


460  MARE  NOSTRUM 

was  swearing  between  his  teeth,  protesting  against  the 
coming  separation.  .  .  .  Never  to  see  him  again,  after 
so  many  years  of  brotherly  companionship!  .  .  . 
Cnstol  .  .  . 

The  captain  was  afraid  that  he,  too,  might  burst  into 
tears  and  again  ordered  his  mate  to  present  the  accounts 
of  the  crew. 

An  hour  later  Toni  reentered  the  saloon,  carrying 
in  his  hand  the  opened  letter.  He  had  not  been  able 
to  resist  the  temptation  of  forcing  the  secret,  fearing  that 
Ferragut's  generosity  might  prove  excessive,  and  im- 
possible to  consider.  He  protested,  handing  to  Ulysses 
the  check  taken  from  the  envelope. 

"I  could  not  accept  it !  ...  It's  a  crazy  idea !  .  .  ." 

He  had  read  with  terror  the  amount  made  out  to  him  in 
the  letter  of  credit,  first  in  figures  then  in  long  hand. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pesetas !  .  .  .  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars! 

"That  is  not  for  me/'  he  said  again.  "I  do  not  deserve 
it.  ...  What  could  I  ever  do  with  so  much  money?" 

The  captain  pretended  to  be  irritated  by  his  disobedi- 
ence. 

"You  take  that  paper,  you  brute!  ...  I  was  just 
afraid  that  you  were  going  to  protest.  .  .  .  It's  for  your 
children,  and  so  that  you  can  take  a  rest.  Now  we 
won't  talk  any  more  about  it  or  I  shall  get  angry." 

Then,  in  order  to  conquer  Toni's  scruples,  he  aban- 
doned his  violent  tone,  and  said  sadly: 

"I  have  no  heirs.  ...  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
my  useless  fortune." 

And  he  repeated  once  more  like  a  complaint  against 
destiny:  "I  am  rotten  with  money!  .  .  ." 

The  following  morning,  while  Toni  was  in  his  cabin 
adjusting  the  accounts  of  the  crew,  astonished  by  the 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      461 

munificence  of  their  paying-off,  Uncle  Caragol  came 
into  the  saloon,  asking  to  speak  to  Ferragut. 

He  had  placed  an  old  cape  over  his  flapping  and 
scanty  clothing,  more  as  a  decoration  for  the  visit  than 
because  the  cold  of  Brittany  was  really  making  him  suf- 
fer. 

He  removed  from  his  shaved  head  his  everlasting  palm- 
leaf  hat,  fixing  his  bloodshot  eyes  on  the  captain  who 
continued  writing  after  replying  to  his  greeting. 

"What  does  this  mean,  this  order  that  I've  just  re- 
ceived to  prepare  to  leave  the  boat  within  a  few  hours? 

,  .  It  must  be  some  kind  of  a  joke  of  Toni's;  he's  an 
excellent  fellow  but  an  enemy  to  holy  things  and  likes 
to  tease  me  because  of  my  piety.  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  laid  aside  his  pen,  swinging  around  toward 
the  cook  whose  fate  had  troubled  him  as  much  as  the 
first  mate's. 

"Uncle  Caragol,  we  are  growing  old  and  we  must 
think  about  retiring.  ...  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  paper ; 
you  will  guard  it  just  as  though  it  were  a  sacred  picture, 
and  when  you  present  it  in  Valencia  they  will  give  you 
ten  thousand  dollars.  Do  you  know  how  much  ten 
thousand  dollars  are?  .  .  ." 

Bringing  his  mentality  down  to  the  level  of  this  simple- 
minded  man,  he  enjoyed  tracing  out  for  him  a  plan  of 
living.  He  could  invest  his  capital  in  whatever  modest 
enterprise  in  the  port  of  Valencia  might  appeal  to  his 
fancy ;  he  could  establish  a  restaurant  which  would  soon 
become  famous  for  its  Olympian  rice  dishes.  His 
nephews  who  were  fishermen  would  receive  him  like  a 
god.  He  could  also  be  partner  in  a  couple  of  barks, 
dedicated  to  fishing  for  the  bou.  There  was  awaiting 
him  a  happy  and  honorable  old  age;  his  former  sailing 
companions  were  going  to  look  upon  him  with  envy. 
He  could  get  up  late  in  the  morning;  Ije  could  go  to  the 


462  MARE  NOSTRUM 

cafes ;  as  a  rich  devotee  he  could  figure  in  all  the  religious 
processions  of  the  Grau  and  of  the  Cabanal;  he  could 
have  a  place  of  honor  in  the  holy  processions.  .  .  . 

Heretofore,  when  Feragut  was  talking,  Uncle  Caragol 
had  always  mechanically  interrupted  him,  saying:  "That 
is  so,  my  captain."  For  the  first  time  he  was  not  nodding 
his  head  nor  smiling  with  his  sun-like  face.  He  was 
pale  and  gloomy.  He  shook  his  round  head  energetically 
and  said  laconically: 

"No,  my  captain." 

Before  the  glance  of  astonishment  which  Ulysses 
flashed  upon  him,  he  found  it  necessary  to  explain  him- 
self. 

"What  am  I  ever  going  to  do  ashore?  .  .  .  Who  is 
expecting  me  there?  ...  Or  what  business  with  my 
family  would  have  any  interest  for  me?  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  seemed  to  be  hearing  an  echo  of  his  own 
thoughts.  He,  like  the  cook,  would  have  nothing  to  do 
en  land.  .  .  .  He  was  mortally  bored  when  far  from  the 
sea,  just  as  in  those  months  when,  still  young,  he  had  be- 
lieved that  he  could  create  for  himself  a  new  profession 
in  Barcelona.  Besides,  it  was  impossible  to  return  to  his 
home,  taking  up  life  again  with  his  wife;  it  would  be 
simply  losing  his  last  illusions.  It  would  be  better  to 
view  from  afar  all  that  remained  of  his  former  existence. 

Caragol,  meanwhile,  was  going  on  talking.  His 
nephews  would  not  remember  the  poor  old  cook  and  he 
had  no  reason  to  trouble  himself  about  their  fate,  making 
them  rich.  He  would  prefer  to  remain  just  where  he 
Vvas,  without  money  but  happy. 

"Let  the  others  go!"  he  said  with  childish  selfishness. 
"Let  Toni  go!  ...  I'm  going  to  stay.  .  .  .  I've  got  to 
stay.  When  the  captain  goes,  then  Uncle  Caragol  will 
go." 

Ulysses  enumerated  the  great  dangers  that  the  boat 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      463 

was  about  to  face.  The  German  submarines  were  lying' 
in  wait  for  it  with  deadly  determination;  there  would 
be  combats  .  .  .  they  would  be  torpedoed.  .  .  . 

The  old  man's  smile  showed  contempt  of  all  such  dan- 
gers. He  was  certain  that  nothing  bad  could  possibly 
happen  to  the  Mare  Nostrum.  The  furies  of  the  sea 
were  unavailing  against  it  and  still  less  could  the  wick- 
edness of  man  injure  it. 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  Captain.  ...  I  am 
sure  that  we  shall  come  out  safe  and  sound  from  all 
dangers." 

He  thought  of  his  miracle-working  amulets,  of  his 
sacred  pictures,  of  the  supernatural  protection  that  his 
pious  prayers  were  bringing  him.  Furthermore,  he  was 
taking  into  consideration  the  Latin  name  of  the  ship 
which  had  always  inspired  him  with  religious  respect. 
It  belonged  to  the  language  used  by  the  Church,  to  the 
idiom  which  brought  about  miracles  and  expelled  the 
devil,  making  him  run  away  aghast. 

"The  Mare  Nostrum  will  not  suffer  any  misfortune. 
If  it  should  change  its  title  .  .  .  perhaps.  But  while  it  is 
called  Mare  Nostrum, — how  could  anything  happen  to 
it?  .  .  ." 

Smiling  before  this  faith,  Ferragut  brought  forth  his 
last  argument.  The  entire  crew  was  going  to  be  made 
up  of  Frenchmen ;  how  could  they  ever  understand  each 
other  if  he  were  ignorant  of  their  language  ?  .  .  . 

"I  know  it  all,"  affirmed  the  old  man  superbly. 

He  had  made  himself  understood  with  men  in  all  the 
different  ports  of  the  world.  He  was  counting  on  some- 
thing more  than  mere  language, — on  his  eyes,  his  hands, 
the  expressive  cunning  of  an  exuberant  and  gesticulating 
meridional. 

"I  am  just  like  San  Vicente  Ferrer"  he  added  with 
pride. 


464  MARE  NOSTRUM 

His  saint  had  spoken  only  the  Valencian  dialect,  and 
yet  had  traveled  throughout  half  Europe  preaching  to 
throngs  of  different  tongues,  making  them  weep  with 
mystic  emotion  and  repent  of  their  sins. 

While  Ferragut  retained  the  command,  he  was  going 
to  stay.  If  he  didn't  want  him  for  a  cook,  he  would 
be  the  cabin  boy,  washing  up  the  pots  and  pans.  The 
important  thing  for  him  was  to  continue  treading  the 
deck  of  the^  vessel. 

The  captain  had  to  give  in.  This  old  fellow  repre- 
sented a  remnant  of  his  past.  He  could  betake  himself 
from  time  to  time  to  the  galley  to  talk  over  the  far-away 
days  in  which  they  first  met. 

And  Caragol  retired,  content  with  his  success. 

"As  for  those  Frenchmen,"  he  said  before  departing, 
"just  leave  them  to  me.  They  must  be  good  people.  .  .  . 
We'll  just  see  what  they  say  about  my  rice  dishes." 

In  the  course  of  the  week  the  Mare  Nostrum  was  de- 
organized  and  re-manned.  Its  former  crew  went  march- 
ing away  in  groups.  Toni  was  the  last  to  leave,  and 
Ulysses  did  not  wish  to  see  him,  fearing  to  show  his 
emotion.  They'd  surely  write  to  each  other. 

A  sympathetic  curiosity  impelled  the  cook  toward  the 
new  marine  force.  He  saluted  the  officers  affably,  re- 
gretting not  to  know  their  language  sufficiently  to  begin 
a  friendly  conversation  with  them.  The  captain  had 
accustomed  him  to  such  familiarity. 

There  were  two  mates  that  the  mobilization  had  con- 
verted into  auxiliary  lieutenants  of  the  navy.  The  first 
day  they  presented  themselves  on  board  arrayed  in  their 
uniform ;  then  they  returned  in  civilian  clothes  in  order 
to  habituate  themselves  to  being  simple  merchant  officers 
on  a  neutral  steamer.  The  two  knew,  by  hearsay,  of 
Ferragut's  former  voyages  and  his  services  to  the  Allies, 
and  they  understood  each  other  sympathetically  without 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      465 

the  slightest  national  prejudice.  Caragol  achieved  equal 
success  with  the  forty-five  men  who  had  taken  possession 
of  the  machinery  and  the  messrooms  in  the  forecastle. 
They  were  dressed  like  seamen  of  the  fleet,  with  a  broad 
blue  collar  and  a  cap  topped  by  a  red  pompom.  Some 
displayed  on  the  breast  military  medals  and  the  recent 
Crolx  de  Guerre.  From  their  canvas  bags  which  served 
them  for  valises,  they  unpacked  their  regulation  suits, 
worn  when  they  were  working  on  the  freight  steamers, 
on  the  schooners  plying  to  Newfoundland,  or  on  the 
simple  coasting  smacks. 

The  galley  at  certain  hours  was  full  of  men  listening 
to  the  old  cook.  Some  knew  the  Spanish  tongue  on, 
account  of  having  sailed  in  brigs  from  Saint-Malo  and 
Saint-Nazaire,  going  to  the  ports  of  the  Argentine,  Chili 
and  Peru.  Those  who  could  not  understand  the  old  fel- 
low's words,  could  guess  at  them  from  his  gesticulations. 
They  were  all  laughing,  finding  him  bizarre  and  interest- 
ing. And  this  general  gayety  induced  Caragol  to  bring 
forth  liquid  treasures  that  had  been  piling  up  in  former 
voyages  under  Ferragut's  careless  and  generous  admin- 
istration. 

The  strong  alcoholic  wine  of  the  coast  of  the  Levant 
began  falling  into  the  glasses  like  ink  crowned  with  a  cir- 
cle of  rubies.  The  old  man  poured  it  forth  with  a 
prodigal  hand.  "Drink  away,  boys;  in  your  land  you 
don't  have  anything  like  this.  .  .  ."  At  other  times  he 
would  concoct  his  famous  "refrescoes,"  smiling  with  the 
satisfaction  of  an  artist  at  seeing  the  sensuous  grin  that 
began  flashing  across  their  countenances. 

"When  did  you  ever  drink  anything  like  that?  What 
would  ever  become  of  you  all  without  your  Uncle  Cara- 
gol?  .  .  ." 

These  Bretons,  accustomed  to  the  discipline  and  so- 
briety of  other  vessels,  admired  greatly  the  extraordi- 


466  MARE  NOSTRUM 

nary  privileges  of  a  cook  who  could  display  as  much 
generosity  as  the  captain  himself.  He  frequently  com- 
municated to  Ferragut  his  opinion  regarding  his  new 
comrades.  With  good  reason  he  had  said  that  they 
would  understand  each  other!  .  .  .  They  were  serious 
and  religious  men,  and  he  preferred  them  to  the  former 
Mediterranean  crews,  blasphemers  and  incapable  of 
resignation,  who  at  the  slightest  vexation  would  rip  out 
God's  name,  trying  to  affront  him  with  their  curses. 

They  were  all  muscular  and  well  set-up  with  blue  eyes 
and  blonde  mustaches,  and  were  wearing  hidden  medal- 
lions. One  of  them  had  presented  to  the  cook  one  of  his 
religious  charms  which  he  had  bought  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
Ste.  Anne  d'Auray.  Caragol  was  wearing  it  upon  his 
hairy  chest,  and  experiencing  a  new-born  faith  in  the 
miracles  of  this  foreign  image. 

"To  her  sanctuary,  Captain,  the  pilgrims  go  in  thou- 
sands. Every  day  she  performs  a  miracle.  .  .  .  There's 
a  holy  staircase  there  which  the  devout  climb  on  their 
knees  and  many  of  these  lads  have  mounted  it.  I  should 
like  .  .  ." 

On  some  of  their  voyages  to  Brest  he  was  hoping  that 
Ferragut  would  permit  him  to  go  to  Auray  long  enough 
to  climb  that  same  stairway  on  his  knees,  to  see  Ste.  Anne 
and  return  aboard  ship. 

The  vessel  was  no  longer  in  a  commercial  harbor.  It 
had  gone  to  a  military  harbor, — a  narrow  river  wind- 
ing through  the  interior  of  the  city,  dividing  it  in  two. 
A  great  drawbridge  put  in  communication  the  two  shores 
bordered  with  vast  constructions  and  high  chimneys, 
naval  shops,  warehouses,  arsenals,  and  dry-docks  for 
cleaning  up  the  boats.  Tug-boats  were  continually  stir- 
ring up  its  green  and  miry  waters.  Steamers  under- 
going repairs  were  lined  up  the  length  of  the  break- 
waters undergoing  a  continual  pounding  that  made  their 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      467 

plates  resound.  Lighters  topped  with  hills  of  pit  coal 
were  going  slowly  to  take  their  position  along  the  flanks 
of  the  ships.  Under  the  drawbridge  launches  were  com- 
ing and  going  from  the  warships,  leaving  on  the  floating 
piers  the  crews  celebrating  their  shore-leave  with  scan- 
dalous uproar. 

The  Mare  Nostrum  remained  isolated  while  the  work- 
men from  the  arsenal  were  installing  on  the  poop  rapid- 
Tire  guns  and  the  wireless  telegraph  apparatus.  No  one 
could  come  aboard  that  did  not  belong  to  the  crew. 

The  sailors'  families  were  waiting  for  them  on  the 
wharf,  and  Caragol  had  occasion  to  become  acquainted 
with  many  Breton  women, — mothers,  sisters,  or  fiancees 
of  his  new  friends.  He  liked  these  women :  they  were 
dressed  in  black  with  full  skirts,  and  white,  stiff  caps 
which  brought  to  his  mind  the  wimples  of  the  nuns.  .  .  . 
Some  tall,  stout  girls  with  blue  and  candid  eyes  laughed 
at  the  Spaniard  without  understanding  a  single  word. 
The  old  women  with  faces  as  dark  and  wrinkled  as 
winter  apples  touched  glasses  with  Caragol  in  the  low 
cafes  near  the  port.  They  all  could  do  honor  to  a  goblet 
in  an  opportune  moment,  and  had  great  faith  in  the 
saints.  The  cook  did  not  require  anything  more.  .  .  . 
Most  excellent  and  charming  people ! 

Certain  lads  decorated  with  the  Croix  de  Guerre  used 
to  relate  their  experiences  to  him.  They  were  survivors 
of  the  battalion  of  marines  who  defended  Dixmude.  After 
the  battle  of  the  Marne  they  had  been  sent  to  intercept 
the  enemy  on  the  side  of  Flanders.  There  were  not 
more  than  six  thousand  of  them  and,  aided  by  a  Belgian 
division,  they  had  sustained  the  onrush  of  an  entire  army. 
Their  resistance  had  lasted  for  weeks: — a  combat  of 
barricades  in  the  street,  of  struggles  the  length  of  the 
canal  with  the  bloodiness  of  the  ancient  piratical  forays. 
The  officers  had  shouted  their  orders  with  broken  swords 


468  MARE  NOSTRUM 

and  bandaged  heads.  The  men  had  fought  on  without 
thinking  of  their  wounds,  covered  with  blood,  until  they 
fell  down  dead. 

Caragol,  hitherto  little  interested  in  military  affairs, 
became  most  enthusiastic  when  relating  this  heroic  strug- 
gle to  Ferragut,  simply  because  his  new  friends  had 
taken  part  in  it. 

"Many  died,  Captain.  .  .  .  Almost  half  of  them.  But 
the  Germans  couldn't  make  any  headway.  .  .  .  Then,  on 
learning  that  the  marines  had  been  no  more  than  six 
thousand,  the  generals  tore  their  hair.  So  great  was 
their  wrath!  They  had  supposed  that  they  were  con- 
fronted by  dozens  of  thousands.  ...  It  was  just  great 
to  hear  the  lads  relate  what  they  did  there." 

Among  these  "lads"  wounded  in  the  war,  who  had 
passed  to  the  naval  reserve  and  were  manning  the  Mare 
Nostrum,  one  was  especially  distinguished  by  the  old 
man's  partiality.  He  could  talk  to  him  in  Spanish,  be- 
cause of  his  transatlantic  voyages,  and  besides  he  had 
been  born  in  Vannes. 

If  the  youth  ever  approached  the  cook's  dominions 
he  was  invariably  met  with  a  smile  of  invitation.  "A  re- 
fresco,  Vicente?"  The  best  seat  was  for  him.  Caragol 
had  forgotten  his  name  as  not  worth  while.  Since  he 
came  from  Vannes,  he  could  not  have  any  other  name 
but  Vicente. 

The  first  day  that  they  chatted  together,  the  marine, 
in  love  with  his  country,  described  to  the  cook  the  beau- 
ties of  Morbihan, — a  great  interior  sea  surrounded  with 
groves  and  with  islands  covered  with  pines.  Among  the 
venerable  antiquities  of  the  city  was  the  Gothic  cathedral 
with  its  many  tombs,  among  them  that  of  a  Spanish  saint, 
— St.  Vicente  Ferrer. 

This  gave  a  tug  at  Caragol's  heart-strings.  He  had 
never  before  bothered  to  find  out  where  the  famous 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      469 

apostle  of  Valencia  was  entombed.  .  .  .  He  recalled  sud- 
denly a  strophe  of  the  songs  of  praise  that  the  devotees 
of  his  land  used  to  sing  before  the  altars  of  this  saint. 
Sure  enough  he  had  gone  to  die  in  "Vannes,  in  Brit- 
tainy," — a  mere  geographical  name  which  until  then 
had  lacked  any  significance  for  him.  .  .  .  And  so  this 
lad  was  from  Vannes?  Nothing  more  was  needed  to 
make  Caragol  regard  him  with  the  respect  due  to  one 
born  in  a  miraculous  country. 

He  made  him  describe  many  times  the  tomb  of  the 
saint,  the  only  one  in  the  transept  of  the  cathedral,  the 
moth-eaten  tapestries  that  perpetuated  his  miracles,  the 
silver  bust  which  guarded  his  heart.  .  .  .  Furthermore, 
the  principal  portal  of  Vannes  was  called  the  gate  of 
St.  Vicente  and  recollections  of  the  saint  were  still  alive 
in  their  chronicles. 

Caragol  proposed  to  visit  this  city  also  when  the  ship 
should  return  to  Brest.  Brittainy  must  be  very  holy 
ground,  the  holiest  in  the  world,  since  the  miracle-work- 
ing Valencian,  after  traversing  so  many  nations,  had 
wished  to  die  there. 

It,  therefore,  did  not  produce  the  slightest  astonish- 
ment that  this  slip  of  a  boy  who  had  been  picked  up  at 
Dixmude  covered  with  wounds,  was  now  showing  him- 
self sane  and  vigorous.  .  .  .  On  board  the  Mare  Nostrum 
he  was  the  head  gunner.  He  and  two  comrades  had 
charge  of  the  quickfirers.  For  Caragol  there  was  not  the 
slightest  doubt  as  to  the  fate  of  every  submarine  that 
should  venture  to  attack  them;  the  "lad  from  Vannes" 
would  send  them  to  smithereens  at  the  first  shot.  A 
picture  post-card,  a  gift  of  the  lad  from  Brittany,  show- 
ing the  tomb  of  the  saint,  occupied  the  position  of  honor 
in  the  galley.  The  old  man  used  to  pray  before  it  as 
though  it  were  a  miracle-working  print,  and  the  Cristo 
del  Grao  was  relegated  to  second  place* 


4/o  MARE  NOSTRUM 

One  morning  Caragol  went  in  search,  of  the  captain 
and  found  him  writing  in  his  stateroom.  He  had  just 
come  from  making  purchases  in  the  shore  market. 
While  passing  through  the  rue  de  Siam,  the  most  im- 
portant road  in  Brest,  where  the  theaters  are,  the  moving- 
picture  shows,  and  the  cafe's,  he  had  had  an  encounter. 

"An  unexpected  meeting,"  he  continued  with  a  mys- 
terious smile.  "Who  do  you  suppose  it  was  with  ?  .  .  ." 

Ferragut  shrugged  his  shoulders.  And,  noting  his  in- 
difference, the  old  man  could  not  keep  the  secret  any 
longer. 

"The  lady-bird!"  he  added.  "That  handsome,  per- 
fumed lady-bird  that  used  to  come  to  see  you.  .  .  .  The 
one  from  Naples.  .  .  .  The  one  from  Barcelona.  .  .  ." 

The  captain  turned  pale,  first  with  surprise  and  then 
with  anger.  Freya  in  Brest!  .  .  .  Her  spy  work  was 
reaching  even  here?  .  .  . 

Caragol  went  on  with  his  story.  He  was  returning  to 
the  ship,  and  she,  who  was  walking  through  the  rue  de 
Siam,  had  recognized  him,  speaking  to  him  affection- 
ately. 

"She  asked  to  be  remembered  to  you.  .  .  .  She  has 
been  informed  that  no  foreigner  can  come  aboard.  She 
told  me  that  she  had  tried  to  come  to  see  you." 

The  cook  began  a  search  through  his  pockets,  ex- 
tricating a  bit  of  wrinkled  paper,  a  white  sheet  snatched 
from  an  old  letter. 

"She  also  gave  me  this  paper,  written  right  there  in  the 
street  with  a  lead  pencil.  You  will  know  what  it  says. 
I  did  not  wish  to  look  at  it." 

Ferragut,  on  taking  the  paper,  recognized  immediately 
her  handwriting,  although  uneven,  nervous  and  scrib- 
bled with  great  precipitation.  Six  words,  no  more: — 
"Farewell,  I  am  going  to  die." 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      471 

"Lies!  Always  lies!"  said  the  voice  of  prudence  in 
his  brain. 

He  tore  up  the  paper  and  passed  the  rest  of  the 
morning  very  much  preoccupied.  ...  It  was  his  duty 
to  defend  himself  against  this  espionage  that  had  even 
established  its  base  in  a  port  of  war.  .  .  .  Every  boat 
anchored  near  the  Mare  Nostrum  was  menaced  by 
Freya's  power  to  give  information.  Who  knew  but  what 
her  mysterious  communications  would  bring  about  their 
attack  by  a  submarine  on  going  out  from  the  roadstead 
of  Brest!  .  .  . 

His  first  impulse  was  to  denounce  her.  Then  he 
repented  because  of  his  absurd  scruples  of  chivalry.  .  .  . 
Besides,  he  would  have  to  explain  his  past  to  the  head 
officers  at  Brest  who  knew  him  very  slightly.  He  was 
far  from  that  naval  captain  at  Salonica  who  had  so 
well  understood  his  passional  errors. 

He  wished  to  watch  her  for  himself,  and  in  the  even- 
ing he  went  ashore.  He  detested  Brest  as  one  of  the 
dullest  cities  of  the  Atlantic.  It  was  always  raining 
there,  and  there  was  no  diversion  except  the  eternal 
promenade  through  the  rue  de  Siam,  or  a  bored  stay  in 
the  cafes  full  of  seamen  and  English  and  Portuguese 
land-officers. 

He  went  through  the  public  establishments  night  and 
day;  he  made  investigations  in  the  hotels;  he  hired  car- 
riages in  order  to  visit  the  more  picturesque  suburbs. 
For  four  days  he  persisted  in  his  inquiries  without  any 
result. 

He  began  to  doubt  Uncle  Caragol's  veracity.    Perhaps 

he  had  been  drunk  on  returning  to  the  ship,  and  had 

made  up  such  an  encounter.     But  the  recollection  of 

that  paper  written  by  her  discounted  such  a  supposition. 

.  Freva  was  in  Brest. 


472  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  cook  explained  it  all  simply  enough  when  the 
captain  besieged  him  with  fresh  questions. 

"The  lady-bird  must  just  be  passing  through.  Perhaps 
she  flitted  away  that  same  evening.  .  .  .  That  meeting 
was  just  a  chance  encounter." 

Ferragut  had  to  give  up  his  investigations.  The  de- 
fensive work  on  the  ship  was  about  terminated  and  the 
holds  contained  their  cargo  of  projectiles  for  the  army 
of  the  Orient  and  various  unmounted  guns.  He  re- 
ceived his  sailing  orders,  and  one  gray  and  rainy  morn- 
ing they  lifted  anchor  and  steamed  out  of  the  bay  of 
Brest.  The  fog  made  even  more  difficult  the  passage 
between  the  reefs  that  obstruct  this  port.  They  passed 
before  the  lugubrious  Bay  of  the  Dead,  ancient  cemetery 
of  sailboats,  and  continued  their  navigation  toward  the 
south  in  search  of  the  strait  in  order  to  enter  the  Medi- 
terranean. 

Ferragut  felt  increased  pride  in  examining  the  new  as- 
pect of  the  Mare  Nostrum.  The  wireless  telegraph  was 
going  to  keep  him  in  contact  with  the  world.  He  was  no 
longer  a  merchant  captain,  slave  of  destiny,  trusting  to 
good  luck,  and  incapable  of  repelling  an  attack.  The 
radiographic  stations  were  watching  for  him  the  entire 
length  of  the  coast,  advising  him  of  changes  in  his  course 
that  he  might  avoid  the  ambushed  enemy.  The  ap- 
paratus was  constantly  hissing  and  sustaining  invisible 
dialogues.  Besides,  mounted  on  the  stern  was  a  cannon 
covered  with  a  canvas  hood,  ready  to  begin  work. 

The  dreams  of  his  childhood  when  he  used  to  devour 
stories  of  corsairs  and  novels  of  maritime  adventures 
seemed  about  to  be  realized.  He  was  now  entitled  to 
call  himself  "Captain  of  Sea  and  War"  like  the  ancient 
navigators.  If  a  submarine  should  pass  before  him,  he 
would  attack  it  from  the  prow ;  if  it  should  try  to  pursue 
him,  he  would  respond  with  the  cannon. 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      473 

His  adventurous  humor  actually  made  him  anxious 
for  one  of  these  encounters.  A  maritime  combat  had  not 
yet  occurred  in  his  life,  and  he  wished  to  see  how  these 
modest  and  silent  men  who  had  made  war  on  land  and 
contemplated  death  at  close  range,  would  demean  them- 
selves. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  desire  was  realized.  One 
morning  on  the  high  seas  near  Lisbon,  when  he  had 
just  fallen  asleep  after  a  night  on  the  bridge,  the  shouts 
and  runnings  of  the  crew  awakened  him. 

A  submarine  had  broken  the  surface  about  fifteen  hun- 
dred yards  astern  and  was  coming  toward  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum, evidently  fearing  that  the  merchant-boat  would 
try  to  escape;  but  in  order  to  oblige  it  to  stop,  its  gun 
fired  two  shells  which  fell  into  the  water. 

The  steamer  moderated  its  pace  but  only  to  place  itself 
in  a  more  favorable  position  and  to  maneuver  with  more 
sea  room,  with  its  arms  at  the  stern.  At  the  first  shot 
the  submarine  began  to  recede,  keeping  a  more  prudent 
distance,  surprised  to  receive  an  answer  to  its  aggres- 
sion. 

The  combat  lasted  half  an  hour.  The  shots  repeated 
themselves  on  both  sides  with  the  speed  of  rapid  fire  ar- 
tillery. Ferragut  was  near  the  gun,  admiring  the  calm 
coolness  with  which  its  servants  manipulated  it.  One 
always  had  a  projectile  in  his  arms  ready  to  give  it  to 
his  companion  who  rapidly  introduced  it  into  the  smok- 
ing chamber.  The  gunner  was  concentrating  all  his  life 
in  his  eyes,  and  bending  over  the  cannon,  moved  it  care- 
fully, seeking  the  sensitive  part  of  that  gray  and  pro- 
longed body  that  was  rising  to  the  surface  of  the  water 
as  though  it  were  a  whale. 

Suddenly  a  cloud  of  kindling  wood  flew  near  the  steam- 
er's prow.  An  enemy's  projectile  had  just  hit  the  edge 
of  the  roofs  that  covered  the  galley  and  mess  rooms. 


474  MARE  NOSTRUM 

Caragol,  who  was  standing  in  the  door  of  his  dominions, 
raised  his  hands  to  his  hat.  When  the  yellowish  and 
evil-smelling  cloud  dissolved,  they  saw  him  still  standing 
there,  scratching  the  top  of  his  head,  bare  and  red. 

"It's  nothing!"  he  cried.  "Just  a  bit  of  wood  that 
drew  a  little  of  my  blood.  Fire  away !  .  .  .  Fire !" 

He  was  yelling  directions,  inflamed  by  the  shooting. 
The  drug-like  smell  of  the  smokeless  powder,  the  dull 
thud  of  the  detonations  appeared  to  intoxicate  him.  He 
was  leaping  and  wringing  his  hands  with  the  ardor  of 
a  war-dancer. 

The  gunners  redoubled  their  activity ;  the  shots  became 
continuous. 

"There  it  is !"  yelled  Caragol.  "They  have  hit  it.  ... 
They  have  hit  it !" 

Of  all  those  aboard,  he  was  the  one  who  could  least 
appreciate  the  effects  of  the  shots  for  he  could  scarcely 
discern  the  silhouette  of  the  submersible.  But  in  spite 
of  that  he  continued  bellowing  with  all  the  force  of  his 
faith. 

"Now  you've  hit  it !  .  .  .  Hurrah!    Hurrah!" 

And  the  strange  thing  was  that  the  enemy  instantly 
disappeared  from  the  blue  surface.  The  gunners  still 
sent  some  shots  against  their  periscope.  Then  there 
was  left  in  the  place  which  they  had  occupied  only  a  white 
and  glistening  expanse. 

The  steamer  went  toward  this  enormous  spot  of  oil 
whose  undulations  were  twinkling  with  sunflower-like  re- 
flections. 

The  marines  uttered  shouts  of  enthusiasm.  They  were 
sure  of  having  sent  the  submersible  to  the  bottom.  The 
officers  were  less  optimistic.  They  had  never  seen  one 
raise  itself  up  vertically,  tilting  its  stern  high  in  the  air 
before  sinking.  Perhaps  it  simply  had  been  damaged 
and  obliged  to  hide. 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      475 

The  loss  of  the  submarine  was  a  sure  thing  in  Cara- 
gol's  estimation,  and  he  considered  it  entirely  unneces- 
sary to  ask  the  name  of  the  one  who  had  blown  it  to 
smithereens. 

"It  must  have  been  that  lad  from  Vannes.  .  .  .  He's 
the  only  one  who  could  have  done  it." 

For  him  the  other  gunners  simply  did  not  exist.  And, 
inflamed  by  his  enthusiasm,  he  wriggled  out  of  the  hands 
of  the  two  seamen  who  had  begun  to  bandage  his  head 
with  a  deftness  learned  in  land  combats. 

Ferragut  was  entirely  satisfied  with  this  encounter. 
Although  he  could  not  be  absolutely  certain  of  the  de- 
struction of  the  enemy,  the  fact  that  his  boat  had  saved 
itself  would  spread  abroad  the  fact  that  the  Mare  Nos- 
trum was  entirely  capable  of  self-defense. 

His  joy  took  him  to  Caragol's  domains. 

"Well  done,  old  man!  We're  going  to  write  to  the 
Ministry  of  Marine  to  give  you  the  Croix  de  Guerre." 

The  cook,  taking  his  words  in  all  seriousness,  declined 
the  honor.  If  such  recompense  were  to  be  given  to  any 
one,  let  it  be  handed  to  "that  lad  from  Vannes."  Then  he 
added  as  though  reflecting  the  captain's  thoughts: 

"I  like  to  sail  in  this  fashion.  .  .  .  Our  steamer  has 
gotten  its  teeth,  and  now  it  will  not  have  to  run  like  a 
frightened  rabbit.  .  .  .  They'll  have  to  let  it  go  on  its 
way  in  peace  because  now  it  can  bite." 

The  rest  of  the  journey  toward  Salonica  was  without 
incident.  Telegraphy  kept  it  in  contact  with  the  instruc- 
tions arriving  from  the  shore.  Gibraltar  advised  it  to 
sail  close  to  the  African  coast ;  Malta  and  Bizerta  pointed 
out  that  it  could  continue  forward  since  the  passage 
between  Tunis  and  Sicily  was  clear  of  enemies.  From 
distant  Egypt  tranquillizing  messages  came  to  meet  them 
while  they  were  sailing  among  the  Grecian  Islands  with 
the  prow  toward  Salonica. 


476  MARE  NOSTRUM 

On  their  return,  they  were  to  take  freight  to  the  har- 
bor of  Marseilles. 

Ferragut  did  not  have  to  bother  about  the  boat  while 
it  was  at  anchor.  The  French  officials  were  the  ones 
who  made  arrangements  with  the  harbor  authorities. 
He  merely  had  to  be  the  justification  for  the  flag,  a  cap- 
tain of  a  neutral  country,  whose  presence  certified  to  the 
nationality  of  the  vessel.  Only  on  the  sea  did  he  recover 
^command,  every  one  becoming  obedient  to  those  on  the 
bridge. 

He  wandered  through  Marseilles  as  at  other  times, 
passing  the  first  hours  of  the  evening  on  the  terraces  of 
the  Cannebiere. 

An  old  Marseillaise,  captain  of  a  merchant  steamer, 
used  to  chat  with  him  before  returning  to  his  office. 
One  afternoon,  while  Ferragut  was  absent-mindedly 
glancing  at  a  certain  Paris  daily  that  his  friend  was 
carrying,  his  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by  a  name 
printed  at  the  head  of  a  short  article.  Surprise  made 
him  turn  pale  while  at  the  same  time  something  con- 
tracted within  his  breast.  Again  he  spelled  out  the 
name,  fearing  that  he  had  been  under  an  hallucination. 
Doubt  was  impossible :  it  was  very  clear, — Freya  Talberg. 
He  took  the  paper  from  his  comrade's  hand,  disguising 
his  impatience  by  an  assumption  of  curiosity. 

"What  is  the  war  news  to-day?  .  .  ." 

And  while  the  old  sailor  was  giving  him  the  news, 
he  read  feverishly  the  few  lines  grouped  beneath  that 
name. 

He  was  bewildered.  The  heading  told  little  to  one 
ignorant  of  the  preceding  facts  to  which  the  periodical 
alluded.  These  lines  were  simply  voicing  a  protest 
•against  the  government  for  not  having  made  the  famous 
Freya  Talberg  pay  the  penalty  to  which  she  had  been 
sentenced.  The  paragraph  terminated  with  mention  of 


"FAREWELL,  I  AM  GOING  TO  DIE"      477 

the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  delinquent  as  though 
to  these  qualities  might  be  attributed  the  delay  in  pun- 
ishment. 

Ferragut  put  forth  all  his  efforts  to  give  his  voice  a 
tone  of  indifference. 

"Who  is  this  individual?"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
heading  of  the  article. 

His  companion  had  some  difficulty  in  recalling  her. 
So  many  things  were  happening  because  of  the  war.  .  .  . 

"She  is  a  boche,  a  spy,  sentenced  to  death.  ...  It  ap- 
pears that  she  did  a  great  deal  of  work  here  and  in  other 
ports,  sending  word  to  the  German  submarines  about  the 
departure  of  our  transports.  .  .  .  They  arrested  her  in 
Paris  two  months  ago  when  she  was  returning  from 
Brest." 

His  friend  said  this  with  a  certain  indifference.  These 
spies  were  so  numerous !  .  .  .  The  newspapers  were  con- 
stantly publishing  notices  of  their  shooting: — two  lines, 
no  more,  as  though  treating  of  an  ordinary  casualty. 

"This  Freya  Talberg,"  he  continued,  "has  had  enough 
said  about  her  personality.  It  seems  that  she  is  a  chic 
woman, — a  species  of  lady  from  a  novel.  Many  are  pro- 
testing because  she  has  not  yet  been  executed.  It  is 
sad  to  have  to  kill  one  of  her  sex, — to  kill  a  woman  and 
especially  a  beautiful  woman !  .  .  .  But  nevertheless  it  is 
very  necessary.  ...  I  believe  that  she  is  to  be  shot  at 
any  moment." 


CHAPTER  XII 
AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE! 

THE  Mare  Nostrum  made  another  trip  from  Marseilles 
to  Salonica. 

Before  sailing,  Ferragut  hunted  vainly  through  the 
Paris  periodicals  for  fresh  news  of  Freya.  For  some 
days  past,  the  attention  of  the  public  had  been  so  dis- 
tracted by  various  other  events  that  for  the  time  being  the 
spy  was  forgotten. 

On  arriving  at  Salonica,  he  made  discreet  inquiries 
among  his  military  and  marine  friends  in  the  harbor 
cafes.  Hardly  any  one  had  ever  heard  the  name  of 
Freya  Talberg.  Those  who  had  read  it  in  the  news- 
papers merely  replied  with  indifference. 

"I  know  who  she  is  :  she  is  a  spy  who  was  an  actress, — 
a  woman  with  a  certain  chic.  I  think  that  they've  shot 
her.  ...  I  don't  know  certainly,  but  they  ought  to  have 
shot  her." 

They  had  more  important  things  to  think  about.  A 
spy!  .  .  .  On  all  sides  they  were  discovering  the  in- 
trigues of  German  espionage.  They  had  to  shoot  a  great 
many.  .  .  .  And  immediately  they  forgot  this  affair  in 
order  to  speak  of  the  difficulties  of  the  war  that  were 
threatening  them  and  their  comrades-at-arms. 

When  Ferragut  returned  to  Marseilles  two  months 
afterwards,  he  was  still  ignorant  as  to  whether  his 
former  mistress  was  yet  among  the  living. 

The  first  evening  that  he  met  his  old  comrade,  the 
captain,  in  the  cafe  of  the  Cannebiere,  he  skillfully  guided 

478 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        479 

the  conversation  around  until  he  could  bring  out  natur- 
ally the  question  in  the  back  of  his  mind :  "What  was  the 
fate  of  that  Freya  Talberg  that  there  was  so  much  talk 
about  in  the  newspapers  before  I  went  to  Salonica  ?  .  .  ." 

The  Marseillaise  had  to  make  an  effort  to  recall  her. 

"Ah,  yes!  .  .  .  The  boche  spy/'  he  said  after  a  long 
pause.  "They  shot  her  some  weeks  ago.  The  papers 
said  little  of  her  death, — just  a  few  lines.  Such  people 
don't  deserve  any  more.  .  .  ." 

Ferragut's  friend  had  two  sons  in  the  army ;  a  nephew 
had  died  in  the  trenches,  another,  a  mate  aboard  a  trans- 
port, had  just  perished  in  a  torpedo  attack.  The  old  man 
was  passing  many  nights  without  sleeping  thinking  of  his 
sons  battling  at  the  front.  And  this  uneasiness  gave  a 
hard  and  ferocious  tone  to  his  patriotic  enthusiasm. 

"It's  a  good  thing  she  is  dead.  .  .  .  She  was  a  woman, 
and  shooting  a  woman  is  a  painful  thing.  It  is  always 
repugnant  to  be  obliged  to  treat  them  like  men.  .  .  .  But 
according  to  what  they  tell  me,  this  individual  with  her 
spy-information  brought  about  the  torpedoing  of  six- 
teen vessels.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  wicked  beast!  .  .  ." 

And  he  said  no  more,  changing  the  subject.  Every  one 
evinced  the  same  revulsion  on  recalling  the  spy. 

Ferragut  eventually  shared  the  same  sentiments,  his 
brain  having  divested  itself  of  the  contradictory  duality 
which  had  attended  all  the  critical  moments  of  his  exist- 
ence. Remembering  only  her  crimes,  he  hated  Freya.  As 
a  man  of  the  sea,  he  recalled  his  nameless  fellow-sailors 
killed  by  torpedoes.  This  woman  had  indirectly  prepared 
the  ground  for  many  assassinations.  .  .  .  And  at  the  same 
time  he  recalled  another  image  of  her  as  the  mistress  who 
knew  so  well  how  to  keep  him  spellbound  by  her  artifices 
in  the  old  palace  of  Naples,  making  that  voluptuous 
prison  her  best  souvenir. 

"Let's  think  no  more  about  her,"  he  said  to  himself 


480  MARE  NOSTRUM 

energetically.     "She  has  died.  .  .  .  She  does  not  exist." 

But  not  even  after  her  death  did  she  leave  him  in 
peace.  Remembrance  of  her  soon  came  surging  back, 
binding  her  to  him  with  a  tragic  interest. 

The  very  evening  that  he  was  talking  with  his  friend 
in  the  cafe  of  the  Cannebi&re,  he  went  to  the  post  office  to 
get  the  mail  which  had  been  forwarded  to  him  at  Mar- 
seilles. They  gave  him  a  great  package  of  letters  and 
newspapers.  By  the  handwriting  on  the  envelopes,  and 
the  postmarks  on  the  postals,  he  tried  to  make  out  who 
was  writing  to  him : — one  letter  only  from  his  wife,  evi- 
dently but  a  single  sheet,  judging  from  its  slender  flexi- 
bility, three  very  bulky  ones  from  Toni, — a  species  of 
diary  in  which  he  continued  relating  his  purchases,  his 
crops,  his  hope  of  seeing  the  captain, — all  this  mixed 
in  with  abundant  news  about  the  war,  and  the  wretched 
condition  of  the  people.  There  were,  besides,  various 
sheets  from  the  banking  establishments  at  Barcelona, 
rendering  Ferragut  an  account  of  the  investment  of 
his  capital. 

At  the  foot  of  the  staircase  he  completed  his  ex- 
amination of  the  outside  of  his  correspondence.  It  was 
just  what  was  always  awaiting  him  on  his  return  from 
his  voyages. 

He  was  about  to  put  the  package  in  his  pocket  and 
continue  on  his  way  when  his  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  voluminous  envelope  in  an  unknown  handwriting, 
registered  in  Paris.  .  .  . 

Curiosity  made  him  open  it  immediately  and  he  found 
in  his  hand  a  regular  sheaf  of  loose  leaves,  a  long  ac- 
count that  far  exceeded  the  limits  of  a  letter.  He  looked 
at  the  engraved  letter-head  and  then  at  the  signature. 
The  writer  was  a  lawyer  in  Paris,  and  Ferragut  sus- 
pected by  the  luxurious  paper  and  address  that  he 
must  be  a  celebrated  maitre.  He  even  recalled  having 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        481 

run   across   his   name   somewhere   in   the   newspapers. 

Then  and  there  he  began  reading  the  first  page,  anx- 
ious to  know  why  this  distinguished  personage  had  writ- 
ten to  him.  But  he  had  scarcely  run  his  eyes  over  some  of 
the  sheets  before  he  stopped  his  reading.  He  had  come 
across  the  name  of  Freya  Talberg.  This  lawyer  had 
been  her  defender  before  the  Council  of  War. 

Ferragut  hastened  to  put  the  letter  in  a  safe  place, 
and  curb  his  impatience.  He  felt  that  necessity  for 
silent  isolation  and  absolute  solitude  which  a  reader, 
anxious  to  delve  into  a  new  book,  experiences.  This 
bundle  of  papers  doubtless  contained  for  him  the  most 
interesting  of  stories. 

Returning  to  his  ship,  the  road  seemed  to  him  far 
longer  than  at  other  times.  He  longed  to  lock  himself 
in  his  stateroom,  away  from  all  curiosity  as  though  he 
were  about  to  perform  some  mysterious  rite. 

Freya  was  not  in  existence.  She  had  disappeared 
from  the  world  in  the  infamous  manner  in  which  crimi- 
nals disappear, — doubly  condemned  since  even  her  mem- 
ory was  hateful  to  the  people;  and  Ferragut  within 
a  few  moments  was  going  to  resurrect  her  like  a  ghost, 
in  the  floating  house  that  she  had  visited  on  two  occa- 
sions. He  now  might  know  the  last  hours  of  her  ex- 
istence wrapped  in  disreputable  mystery;  he  could  vio- 
late the  will  of  her  judges  who  had  condemned  her  to 
lose  her  life  and  after  death  to  perish  from  every  one's 
memory.  With  eager  avidity  he  seated  himself  before 
his  cabin  table,  arranging  the  contents  of  the  envelope 
in  order ; — more  than  twelve  sheets,  written  on  both  sides, 
and  several  newspaper  clippings.  In  these  clippings  he 
saw  portraits  of  Freya,  a  hard  and  blurred  likeness  which 
he  could  recognize  only  by  her  name  underneath. 
He  also  beheld  the  portrait  of  her  'defender, — an  old 


482  MARE  NOSTRUM 

lawyer  of  fastidious  aspect  with  white  locks  carefully 
combed,  and  sharp  eyes. 

From  the  very  first  lines,  Ferragut  suspected  that  the 
maitre  could  neither  write  nor  speak  except  in  the  most 
approved  literary  form.  His  letter  was  a  moderated  and 
correct  account  in  which  all  emotion,  however  keen  it 
might  have  been,  was  discreetly  controlled  so  as  not  to 
disorganize  the  sweep  of  a  majestic  style. 

He  began  by  explaining  that  his  professional  duty  had 
made  him  decide  to  defend  this  spy.  She  was  in  need 
of  a  lawyer;  she  was  a  foreigner;  public  opinion,  influ- 
enced by  the  exaggerated  accounts  given  by  the  news- 
papers of  her  beauty  and  her  jewels,  was  ferociously  in- 
imical, demanding  her  immediate  punishment.  Nobody 
had  wished  to  take  charge  of  her  defense.  And  for  this 
very  reason  he  had  accepted  it  without  fear  of  unpopu- 
larity. 

Ferragut  believed  that  this  sacrifice  might  be  attributed 
to  the  impulse  of  a  gallant  old  beau,  attracted  to  Freya 
because  of  her  beauty.  Besides,  this  criminal  process 
represented  a  typical  Parisian  incident  and  might  give 
a  certain  romantic  notoriety  to  the  one  intervening  in 
its  developments. 

A  few  paragraphs  further  on  the  sailor  became  con- 
vinced that  the  maitre  had  fallen  in  love  with  his 
client.  This  woman  even  in  her  dying  moments  shed 
around  her  most  amazing  powers  of  seduction.  The  pro- 
fessional success  anticipated  by  the  lawyer  disappeared 
on  his  first  questioning.  Defense  of  Freya  would  be 
impossible.  When  he  questioned  her  regarding  the  events 
of  her  former  life,  she  either  wept  for  every  answer,  or 
else  remained  silent,  immovable,  with  as  unconcerned  a 
glance  as  though  the  fate  of  some  other  woman  were  at 
stake. 

The  military  judges  did  not  need  her  confessions :  they 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        483 

knew,  detail  for  detail,  all  her  existence  during  the  war 
and  in  the  last  years  of  peace.  Never  had  the  police 
agents  abroad  worked  with  such  rapidity  and  success. 
Mysterious  and  omnipotent  good  fortune  had  crowned 
every  investigation.  They  knew  all  of  Freya's  doings. 
They  had  even  received  from  a  secret  agent  exact  data 
regarding  her  personality,  the  number  by  which  she  was 
represented  in  the  director's  office  at  Berlin,  the  salary 
that  she  was  paid,  as  well  as  her  reports  during  the  past 
month.  Documents  written  by  her  personally,  of  an 
irrefutable  culpability,  had  poured  in  without  any  one's 
knowing  from  what  point  they  were  sent  or  by  whom. 

Every  time  that  the  judge  had  placed  before  Freya's 
eyes  one  of  these  proofs,  she  looked  at  her  lawyer  in 
desperation. 

"It  is  they!"  she  moaned.  "They  who  desire  my 
death !" 

Her  defender  was  of  the  same  opinion.  The  police 
had  learned  of  her  presence  in  France  by  a  letter  that  her 
superiors  in  Barcelona  had  sent,  stupidly  disguised, 
written  with  regard  to  a  code  whose  mystery  had  been 
discovered  some  time  before  by  the  French  counter-spies. 
To  the  mctitre  it  was  only  too  evident  that  some  myste- 
rious power  had  wished  to  rid  itself  of  this  woman, 
dispatching  her  to  an  enemy's  country,  intending  to 
send  her  to  death. 

Ulysses  suspected  in  the  defender  a  state  of  mind 
similar  to  his  own, — the  same  duality  that  had  tormented 
him  in  all  his  relations  with  Freya. 

"I,  sir,"  wrote  the  lawyer,  "have  suffered  much.  One 
of  my  sons,  an  officer,  died  in  the  battle  of  the  Aisne. 
Others  very  close  to  me,  nephews  and  pupils,  died  in 
Verdun  and  with  the  expeditionary  army  of  the 
Orient.  .  .  ." 

As  a  Frenchman,  he  had  felt  an  irresistible  aversion 


484  MARE  NOSTRUM 

upon  becoming  convinced  that  Freya  was  a  spy  who  had 
done  great  harm  to  his  country.  .  .  .  Then  as  a  man,  he 
had  commiserated  her  inconsequence,  her  contradictory 
and  frivolous  character,  amounting  almost  to  a  crime, 
and  her  egoism  as  a  beautiful  woman  and  lover  of 
luxury  that  had  made  her  willing  to  suffer  moral  vileness 
in  exchange  for  creature  comfort. 

Her  story  had  attracted  the  lawyer  with  the  palpitating 
interest  of  a  novel  of  adventure.  Commiseration  had  fi- 
nally developed  the  vehemence  of  a  love  affair.  Besides, 
the  knowledge  that  the  exploiters  of  this  woman  were  the 
ones  that  had  denounced  her,  had  aroused  his  knightly 
enthusiasm  in  the  defense  of  her  indefensible  cause. 

Appearance  before  the  Council  of  War  had  proved 
painful  and  dramatic.  Freya,  who  until  then,  had 
seemed  brutalized  by  the  regime  of  the  prison,  roused 
herself  upon  being  confronted  by  a  dozen  grave  and 
uniformed  men. 

Her  first  moves  were  those  of  every  handsome  and 
coquettish  female.  She  knew  perfectly  well  her  physical 
influence.  These  soldiers  transformed  into  judges  were 
recalling  those  other  flirts  that  she  had  seen  at  the  teas 
and  grand  balls  at  the  hotels.  .  .  .  What  Frenchman 
can  resist  feminine  attraction?  .  .  . 

She  had  smiled,  she  had  replied  to  the  first  questions 
with  graceful  modesty,  fixing  her  wickedly  guileless  eyes 
upon  the  officials  seated  behind  the  presidential  table, 
and  on  those  other  men  in  blue  uniform,  charged  with 
accusing  her  or  reading  the  documents  of  her  pros- 
ecution. 

But  something  cold  and  hostile  existed  in  the  atmos- 
phere and  paralyzed  her  smiles,  leaving  her  words 
without  echo  and  making  ineffectual  the  splendors  of  her 
eyes.  All  foreheads  were  bowed  under  the  weight  of 
severe  thought:  all  the  men  in  that  instant  appeared 


AMPHITRITE !  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        485 

thirty  years  older.  They  simply  would  not  see  such  a 
one  as  she  was,  however  much  effort  she  might  make. 
They  had  left  their  admiration  and  their  desires  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door. 

Freya  perceived  that  she  had  ceased  to  be  a  woman 
and  was  no  more  than  one  accused.  Another  of  her  sex, 
an  irresistible  rival,  was  now  engrossing  everything, 
binding  these  men  with  a  profound  and  austere  love. 
Instinct  made  her  regard  fixedly  the  white  matron  of 
grave  countenance  whose  vigorous  bust  appeared  over 
the  head  of  the  president.  She  was  Patriotism,  Justice, 
the  Republic,  contemplating  with  her  vague  and  hollow 
eyes  this  female  of  flesh  and  blood  who  was  beginning 
to  tremble  upon  realizing  her  situation. 

"I  do  not  want  to  die!"  cried  Freya,  suddenly 
abandoning  her  seductions  and  becoming  a  poor, 
wretched  creature  crazed  by  fear.  "I  am  innocent." 

She  lied  with  the  absurd  and  barefaced  illogicalness 
of  one  finding  herself  in  danger  of  death.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  re-read  her  first  declarations,  which  she  was  now 
denying,  of  presenting  afresh  the  material  proofs  whose 
existence  she  did  not  wish  to  admit,  of  making  her  entire 
past  file  by  supported  by  that  irrefutable  data  of 
anonymous  origin. 

"It  is  they  who  have  done  it  all !  ...  They  have  mis- 
represented me !  ...  Since  they  have  brought  about  my 
ruin,  I  am  going  to  tell  what  I  know." 

In  his  account  the  lawyer  passed  lightly  over  what  had 
occurred  in  the  Council  of  War.  Professional  secrecy 
and  patriotic  interest  prevented  greater  explicitness. 
The  session  had  lasted  from  morning  till  night,  Freya 
revealing  to  her  judges  all  that  she  knew.  .  .  .  Then  her 
defender  had  spoken  for  five  hours,  trying  to  establish 
a  species  of  interchange  in  the  application  of  the  penalty. 
The  guilt  of  this  woman  was  undeniable  and  the  wicked- 


486  MARE  NOSTRUM 

ness  that  she  had  carried  through  was  very  great,  but 
they  should  spare  her  life  in  exchange  for  her  important 
confessions.  .  .  .  Besides,  the  inconsequence  of  her 
character  should  be  taken  into  consideration  .  .  .  also, 
that  vengeance  of  which  the  enemy  had  made  her  the 
victim.  .  .  . 

With  Freya  he  had  waited,  until  well  on  into  the  night, 
the  decision  of  the  tribunal.  The  defendant  appeared  ani- 
mated by  hope.  She  had  become  a  woman  again:  she 
was  talking  placidly  with  him  and  smiling  at  the  gen- 
darmes and  eulogizing  the  army.  .  .  .  "Frenchmen,  gen- 
tlemen, were  incapable  of  killing  a  woman.  .  .  ." 

The  maitre  was  not  surprised  at  the  sad  and  furrowed 
brows  of  the  officers  as  they  came  out  from  their 
deliberations.  They  appeared  discontented  with  their 
recent  vote,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  showed  the  serenity 
of  a  tranquil  countenance.  They  were  soldiers  who  had 
just  fulfilled  their  full  duty,  suppressing  every  purely 
masculine  instinct.  The  one  deputed  to  read  the  sentence 
swelled  his  voice  with  a  fictitious  energy.  .  .  .  "Death! 
.  .  ."  After  a  long  enumeration  of  crimes  Freya  was 
condemned  to  be  shot : — she  had  given  information  to  the 
enemy  that  represented  the  loss  of  thousands  of  men  and 
boats,  torpedoed  because  of  her  reports,  on  which  had 
perished  defenseless  families. 

The  spy  nodded  her  head  upon  listening  to  her  own 
acts,  for  the  first  time  appreciating  their  enormity  and 
recognizing  the  justice  of  their  tremendous  punishment. 
But  at  the  same  time  she  was  relying  upon  a  good- 
natured  reprieve  in  exchange  for  all  which  she  had 
revealed,  upon  a  gallant  clemency  .  .  .  because  she  was 
she. 

As  the  fatal  word  sounded,  she  uttered  a  cry,  became 
ashy  pale,  and  leaned  upon  the  lawyer  for  support. 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        487 

"I  do  not  want  to  die!  ...  I  ought  not  to  die!  .  .  . 
I  am  innocent." 

She  continued  shrieking  her  innocence,  without  giving 
any  other  proof  of  it  than  the  desperate  instinct  of  self- 
preservation.  With  the  credulity  of  one  who  wishes  to 
save  herself,  she  accepted  all  the  problematical  conso- 
lations of  her  defender.  There  remained  the  last  re- 
course of  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  President  of  the 
Republic:  perhaps  he  might  pardon  her.  .  .  .  And  she 
signed  this  appeal  with  sudden  hope. 

The  lawyer  managed  to  delay  the  fulfillment  of  the 
sentence  for  two  months,  visiting  many  of  his  colleagues 
who  were  political  personages.  The  desire  of  saving  the 
life  of  his  client  was  tormenting  him  as  an  obsession.  He 
had  devoted  all  his  activity  and  his  personal  influence  to 
this  affair. 

"In  love!  ...  In  love,  as  you  were!"  said,  with 
scornful  accent,  the  voice  of  Ferragut's  prudent  coun- 
selor. 

The  periodicals  were  protesting  against  this  delay  in 
the  execution  of  the  sentence.  The  name  of  Freya 
Talberg  was  beginning  to  be  heard  in  conversation  as  an 
argument  against  the  weakness  of  the  government.  The 
women  were  the  most  implacable. 

One  day,  in  the  Palace  of  Justice,  the  mmtre  Became 
convinced  of  this  general  animosity  that  was  pushing  the 
defendant  toward  the  day  of  execution.  The  woman 
who  had  charge  of  the  gowns,  a  verbose  old  wife,  on  a 
familiar  footing  with  the  illustrious  lawyers,  had  rudely 
made  known  their  opinions. 

"I  wonder  when  they're  going  to  execute  that  spy !  .  .  . 
If  she  were  a  poor  woman  with  children  and  needed  to 
earn  their  bread,  they  would  have  shot  her  long  ago.  .  .  . 
But  she  is  an  elegant  cocotte  and  with  jewels.  Perhaps 
she  has  bewitched  some  of  the  cabinet  ministers.  We 


488  MARE  NOSTRUM 

are  going  to  see  her  on  the  street  now  almost  any 
day.  .  .  .  And  my  son  who  died  at  Verdun !  .  .  ." 

The  prisoner,  as  though  divining  this  public  indigna- 
tion, began  to  consider  her  death  very  near  losing,  little 
by  little,  that  love  of  existence  which  had  made  her  burst 
forth  into  lies  and  delirious  protests.  In  vain  the  mcutre 
held  out  hopes  of  pardon. 

"It  is  useless :  I  must  die.  ...  I  ought  to  be  shot.  .  .  . 
I  have  done  so  much  mischief.  ...  It  horrifies  even  me 
to  remember  all  the  crimes  named  in  that  sentence.  .  .  . 
And  there  are  still  others  that  they  don't  know!  .  .  . 
Solitude  has  made  me  see  myself  just  as  I  am.  What 
shame!  ...  I  ought  to  perish;  I  have  ruined  every- 
thing. .  .  .  What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do  in  the 
world?  .  .  ." 

"And  it  was  then,  my  dear  sir,"  continued  the  attorney, 
in  his  letter,  "that  she  spoke  to  me  of  you,  of  the  way  in 
which  you  had  known  each  other,  of  the  harm  which  she 
had  done  you  unconsciously/' 

Convinced  of  the  uselessness  of  his  efforts  to  save  her 
life,  the  mmtre  had  solicited  one  last  favor  of  the  tribunal. 
Freya  was  very  desirous  that  he  should  accompany  her 
at  the  moment  of  her  execution,  as  this  would  maintain 
her  serenity.  Those  in  the  government  had  promised 
their  colleague  in  the  forum,  to  send  opportune  notice 
that  he  might  be  present  at  the  fulfillment  of  the  sen- 
tence. 

It  was  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  while  he 
was  in  the  deepest  sleep  that  some  messengers,  sent  by 
the  prefecture  of  police,  awakened  him.  The  execu- 
tion was  to  take  place  at  daybreak:  this  was  a  decision 
reached  at  the  last  moment  in  order  that  the  reporters 
might  learn  too  late  of  the  event. 

An  automobile  took  him  with  the  messengers  to  the 
prison  of  St.  Lazare,  across  silent  and  shadowy  Paris. 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        489 

Only  a  few  hooded  street  lamps  were  cutting  with  their 
sickly  light  the  darkness  of  the  streets.  In  the  prison 
they  were  joined  by  other  functionaries  and  many  chiefs 
and  officers  who  represented  military  justice.  The  con- 
demned woman  was  still  sleeping  in  her  cell,  ignorant  of 
what  was  about  to  occur. 

Those  charged  with  awakening  her,  gloomy  and  timid, 
were  marching  in  line  through  the  corridors  of  the  jail, 
bumping  into  one  another  in  their  nervous  precipitation. 

The  door  was  opened.  Under  the  regulation  light 
Freya  was  on  her  bed,  with  closed  eyes.  Upon  opening 
them  and  finding  herself  surrounded  by  men,  her  face 
was  convulsed  with  terror. 

"Courage,  Freya!"  said  the  prison  warden.  "The 
appeal  for  pardon  has  been  denied." 

"Courage,  my  daughter,"  added  the  priest  of  the 
establishment,  starting  the  beginning  of  a  discourse. 

Her  terror,  due  to  the  rude  surprise  of  awakening  with 
the  brain  still  paralyzed,  lasted  but  a  few  seconds.  Upon 
collecting  her  thoughts,  serenity  returned  to  her  face. 

"I  must  die?"  she  asked.  "The  hour  has  already 
come?  .  .  .  Very  well,  then:  let  them  shoot  me.  Here 
I  am." 

Some  of  the  men  turned  their  heads,  and  so  averted 
their  glance.  .  .  .  She  had  to  get  out  of  the  bed  in  the 
presence  of  the  two  watchmen.  This  precaution  was  so 
that  she  might  not  attempt  to  take  her  life.  She  even 
asked  the  lawyer  to  remain  in  the  cell  as  though  in  this 
way  she  wished  to  lessen  the  annoyance  of  dressing  her- 
self before  strangers. 

Upon  reaching  this  passage  in  his  letter,  Ferragut 
realized  the  pity  and  admiration  of  the  mmtre  who  had 
seen  her  preparing  the  last  toilet  of  her  life. 

"Adorable  creature !     So  beautiful  ?" .      .  She  was  born 


490  MARE  NOSTRUM 

for  love  and  luxury,  yet  was  going  to  die,  torn  by  bullets 
like  a  rude  soldier.  .  .  ." 

The  precautions  adopted  by  her  coquetry  appeared  to 
him  admirable.  She  wanted  to  die  as  she  had  lived, 
placing  on  her  person  the  best  that  she  possessed. 
Therefore,  suspecting  the  nearness  of  her  execution,  she 
had  a  few  days  before  reclaimed  the  jewels  and  the  gown 
that  she  was  wearing  when  arrest  prevented  her  return- 
ing to  Brest. 

Her  defender  described  her  "with  a  dress  of  pearl  gray 
silk,  bronze  stockings  and  low  shoes,  a  great-coat  of  furs, 
and  a  large  hat  with  plumes.  Besides,  the  necklace  of 
pearls  was  on  her  bosom,  emeralds  in  her  ears  and 
all  her  diamonds  on  her  fingers." 

A  sad  smile  curled  her  lips  upon  trying  to  look  at 
herself  in  the  window  panes,  still  black  with  the  darkness 
of  night,  which  served  her  as  a  mirror. 

"I  die  in  my  uniform  like  a  soldier,"  she  said  to  her 
lawyer. 

Then  in  the  ante-chamber  of  the  prison,  under  the 
crude  artificial  light,  this  plumed  woman,  covered  with 
jewels,  her  clothing  exhaling  a  subtle  perfume,  memory 
of  happier  days,  turned  without  any  embarrassment 
toward  the  men  clad  in  black  and  in  blue  uniforms. 

Two  religious  sisters  who  accompanied  her  appeared 
more  moved  than  she.  They  were  trying  to  exhort  her 
and  at  the  same  time  were  struggling  to  keep 
back  the  tears.  .  .  .  The  priest  was  no  less  touched. 
He  had  attended  other  criminals,  but  they  were  men. 
.  .  .  To  assist  to  a  decent  death  a  beautiful  per- 
fumed woman  scintillating  with  precious  stones,  as 
though  she  were  going  to  ride  in  an  automobile  to  a  fash- 
ionable tea !  .  .  . 

The  week  before  she  had  been  in  doubt  as  to  whether 
to  receive  a  Calvinist  pastor  or  a  Catholic  priest.  In  her 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        491 

cosmopolitan  life  of  uncertain  nationality  she  had  never 
taken  the  time  to  decide  about  any  religion  for  herself. 
Finally  she  had  selected  the  latter  on  account  of  its 
being  more  simple  intellectually,  more  liberal  and  ap- 
proachable. .  .  . 

Several  times  when  the  priest  was  trying  to  console 
her,  she  interrupted  him  as  though  she  were  the  one 
charged  with  inspiring  courage. 

"To  die  is  not  so  terrible  as  it  appears  when  seen  afar 
off !  ...  I  feel  ashamed  when  I  think  of  the  fears  that 
I  have  passed  through,  of  the  tears  that  I  have  shed.  .  .  . 
It  turns  out  to  be  much  more  simple  than  I  had  believed. 
.  .  .  We  all  have  to  die!" 

They  read  to  her  the  sentence  refusing  the  appeal  for 
pardon.  Then  they  offered  her  a  pen  that  she  might 
sign  it. 

A  colonel  told  her  that  there  were  still  a  few  moments 
at  her  disposition  in  which  to  write  to  her  family,  her 
friends,  or  to  make  her  last  will.  .  .  . 

"To  whom  shall  I  write?"  said  Freya.  "I  haven't  a 
single  friend  in  the  world.  .  .  ." 

"Then  it  was,"  continued  the  lawyer,  "that  she  took  the 
pen  as  if  a  recollection  had  occurred  to  her,  and  traced 
some  few  lines.  .  .  .  Then  she  tore  up  the  paper  and 
came  toward  me.  She  was  thinking  of  you,  Captain :  her 
last  letter  was  for  you  and  she  left  it  unfinished,  fearing 
that  it  might  never  reach  your  hands.  Besides,  she 
wasn't  equal  to  writing;  her  pulse  was  nervous:  she 
preferred  to  talk.  .  .  .  She  asked  me  to  send  you  a  long, 
very  long  letter,  telling  about  her  last  moments,  and  I  had 
to  swear  to  her  that  I  would  carry  out  her  request." 

From  that  time  on  the  maUre  had  seen  things  badly. 
Emotion  was  perturbing  his  sensibilities,  but  there  yet 
lived  in  his  mind  Freya's  last  words  ori  coming  out  of  the 
jail. 


492  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"I  am  not  a  German,"  she  said  repeatedly  to  the  men 
in  uniform.  "I  am  not  German !" 

For  her  the  least  important  thing  was  to  die.  She  was 
only  worried  for  fear  they  might  believe  her  of  that  odi- 
ous nationality. 

The  attorney  found  himself  in  an  automobile  with 
many  men  whom  he  scarcely  knew.  Other  vehicles  were 
before  and  behind  theirs.  In  one  of  them  was  Freya 
with  the  nuns  and  the  priest. 

A  faint  streak  was  whitening  the  sky,  marking  the 
points  of  the  roofs.  Below,  in  the  deep  blackness  of  the 
streets,  the  renewed  life  of  daybreak  was  slowly  begin- 
ning. The  first  laborers  going  to  their  work  with  their 
hands  in  their  pockets,  and  the  market  women  returning 
from  market  pushing  their  carts,  turned  their  heads, 
following  with  interest  this  procession  of  swift  vehicles 
almost  all  of  them  with  men  in  the  box  seat  beside  the 
conductor.  To  the  working- folk,  this  was  perhaps  a 
morning  wedding.  .  .  .  Perhaps  these  were  gay  people 
coming  from  a  nocturnal  fiesta.  .  .  .  Several  times  the 
cortege  slackened  its  speed,  blocked  by  a  row  of  heavy 
carts  with  mountains  of  garden-stuff. 

The  maitre,  in  spite  of  his  emotions,  recognized  the 
road  that  the  automobile  was  following.  In  the  place  de 
la  Nation  he  caught  glimpses  of  the  sculptured  group, 
le  Triomphe  de  la  Republique,  piercing  the  dripping 
mistiness  of  dawn ;  then  the  grating  of  the  enclosure ;  then 
the  long  cours  de  Vincennes  and  its  historic  fortress. 

They  went  still  further  on  until  they  reached  the  field 
of  execution. 

Upon  getting  down  from  the  automobile,  he  saw  an 
extensive  plain  covered  with  grass  on  which  were  drawn 
up  two  companies  of  soldiers.  Other  vehicles  had  arrived 
before  them.  Freya  detached  herself  from  the  group 
of  persons  descending  from  the  automobile,  leaving  be- 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  ,  AMPHITRITE!        493 

hind  the  nuns  and  the  officers  who  were  escorting  her. 

The  light  of  daybreak,  blue  and  cold  as  the  reflection 
of  steel,  threw  into  relief  the  two  masses  of  armed  men 
who  formed  a  narrow  passageway.  At  the  end  of  this 
impromptu  lane  there  was  a  post  planted  in  the  ground 
and  beyond  that,  a  dark  van  drawn  by  two  horses,  and 
various  men  clad  in  black. 

The  woman's  approach  was  signalized  by  a  voice  of 
command,  and  immediately  sounded  the  drums  and 
trumpets  at  the  head  of  the  two  formations.  There 
was  a  rattle  of  guns;  the  soldiers  were  presenting 
arms.  The  martial  instruments  delivered  the  triumphal 
salute  due  to  the  presence  of  the  head  of  a  state,  a  gen- 
eral, a  flag- raising.  ...  It  was  an  homage  to  Justice, 
majestic  and  severe, — a  hymn  to  Patriotism,  implacable  in 
defense. 

Recalling  the  white  woman  with  deep  bosom  and 
hollow  eyes  that  she  had  seen  over  the  head  of  the 
President  of  the  Council,  the  spy  for  a  moment  recog- 
nized that  all  this  was  in  her  honor ;  but  afterwards,  she 
wished  to  believe  that  the  triumphal  reception  was  for 
herself.  .  .  .  She  was  marching  between  guns,  accom- 
panied by  bugle-call  and  drum-beat,  like  a  queen. 

To  her  defender,  she  appeared  taller  than  ever.  She 
seemed  to  have  grown  a  palm  higher  because  of  her 
intense,  emotional  uplift.  Her  theatrical  soul  was  moved 
just  as  when  she  used  to  present  herself  on  the  boards 
to  receive  applause.  All  these  men  had  arisen  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  and  were  there  on  her  account:  the 
horns  and  the  drums  were  sounding  in  order  to  greet  her. 
Discipline  was  keeping  their  countenances  grave  and  cold 
but  she  had  the  certain  consciousness  that  they  were 
finding  her  beautiful,  and  that  back  of  many  immovable 
eyes,  desire  was  asserting  itself. 

If  there  remained  a  shred  of  fear  of  losing  her  life,  it 


494  MARE  NOSTRUM 

disappeared  under  the  caress  of  this  false  glory.  .  .  . 
TO  die  contemplated  by  so  many  valiant  men  who  were 
rendering  her  the  greatest  of  honors!  She  felt  the 
necessity  of  being  adorable,  of  falling  into  an  artistic 
pose  as  though  she  were  on  a  stage. 

She  was  passing  between  the  two  masses  of  men,  head 
erect,  stepping  firmly  with  the  high-spirited  tread  of  a 
goddess-huntress,  sometimes  casting  a  glance  on  some 
of  the  hundreds  of  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  The  illusion  of 
her  triumph  made  her  advance  as  upright  and  serene  as 
though  passing  the  troops  in  review. 

"Good  heavens!  .  .  .  What  poise!"  exclaimed  a 
young  officer  behind  the  lawyer,  admiring  Freya's 
serenity. 

Upon  approaching  the  post,  some  one  read  a  brief 
document,  a  summary  of  the  sentence, — three  lines  to 
apprise  her  that  justice  was  about  to  be  fulfilled. 

The  only  thing  about  this  rapid  notification  that 
annoyed  her  was  the  fear  that  the  trumpets  and  drums 
would  cease.  But  they  continued  sounding  and  their 
martial  music  was  as  conforting  to  her  ears  as  a  very 
intoxicating  wine  slipping  through  her  lips. 

A  platoon  of  corporals  and  soldiers  (twelve  rifles) 
detached  themselves  from  the  double  military  mass.  A 
sub-officer  with  a  blond  beard,  small,  delicate,  was  com- 
manding it  with  an  unsheathed  sword.  Freya  contem- 
plated him  a  moment,  finding  him  interesting,  while  the 
young  man  avoided  her  glance. 

With  the  gesture  of  a  tragedy  queen,  she  repelled  the 
white  handkerchief  that  they  were  offering  her  to  bandage 
her  eyes.  She  did  not  need  it.  The  nuns  took  leave  of 
her  forever.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone,  two  gendarmes 
commenced  to  tie  her  with  the  back  supported  against 
the  post. 

"They  say,"  her  defender  continued  writing,  "that  one 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        495 

of  her  hands  waved  to  me  for  the  last  time  just  before  it 
was  fastened  down  by  the  rope.  ...  I  saw  nothing.  I 
could  not  see !  ...  It  was  too  much  for  me !  .  .  ." 

The  rest  of  the  execution  he  knew  only  by  hearsay. 
The  trumpets  and  drums  continued  sounding.  Freya, 
bound  and  intensely  pale,  smiled  as  tHough  she  were 
drunk.  The  early  morning  breeze  waved  the  plumes  of 
her  hat. 

When  the  twelve  fusileers  advanced  placing  themselves 
in  a  horizontal  line  eight  yards  distant,  all  of  them  aiming 
toward  her  heart,  she  appeared  to  wake  up.  She 
shrieked,  her  eyes  abnormally  dilated  by  the  horror  of 
the  reality  that  so  soon  was  to  take  place.  Her  cheeks 
were  covered  with  tears.  She  tugged  at  the  ligatures 
with  the  vigor  of  an  epileptic. 

"Pardon !  .  .  .  Pardon !    I  do  not  want  to  die !" 

The  sub-lieutenant  raised  his  sword,  and  lowered  it 
again  rapidly.  ...  A  shot. 

Freya  collapsed,  her  body  slipping  the  entire  length  of 
the  post  until  it  fell  forward  on  the  ground.  The  bullets 
had  cut  the  cords  that  bound  her. 

As  though  it  had  acquired  sudden  life,  her  hat  leaped 
from  her  head,  flying  off  to  fall  about  four  yards  further 
on.  A  corporal  with  a  revolver  in  his  right  hand  came 
forward  from  the  shooting  picket: — "the  death-blow." 
He  checked  his  step  before  the  puddle  of  blood  that  was 
forming  around  the  victim,  pressing  his  lips  together  and 
averting  his  eyes.  He  then  bent  over  her,  raising  with 
the  end  of  the  barrel  the  ringlets  which  had  fallen  over 
one  of  her  ears.  She  was  still  breathing.  ...  A  shot 
in  the  temple.  Her  body  contracted  with  a  final  shudder, 
then  remained  immovable  with  the  rigidity  of  a  corpse. 

Voices  were  heard.  The  firing-scjuad  re-formed  in 
line,  and  to  the  rhythm  of  their  instruments  went  filing 


496  MARE  NOSTRUM 

past  the  body  of  the  dead.  From  the  funeral  wagon  two 
black-robed  men  drew  out  a  bier  of  white  wood. 

Turning  their  backs  upon  their  work,  the  double  mili- 
tary mass  marched  toward  the  encampment.  The  ends 
of  Justice  had  been  served.  Trumpets  and  drums  were 
lost  on  the  horizon  but  their  sounds  were  still  magnified 
by  the  fresh  echoes  of  the  coming  morn.  The  corpse  was 
despoiled  of  its  jewels  and  then  deposited  in  that  poor 
coffin  which  looked  so  like  a  packing-box.  The  two 
nuns  took  with  timidity  the  gems  which  the  dead  woman 
had  given  them  for  their  works  of  charity.  Then  the 
lid  was  fastened  down,  shutting  away  forever  the  one 
who  a  few  moments  before  was  a  woman  of  sumptuous 
charm  upon  whom  men  could  not  look  unmoved.  The 
four  planks  now  guarded  merely  bloody  rags,  mutilated 
flesh,  broken  bones. 

The  vehicle  went  to  the  cemetery  of  Vincennes,  to 
the  corner  in  which  the  executed  were  buried.  .  .  .  Not 
a  flower,  not  an  inscription,  not  a  cross.  The  lawyer 
himself  could  not  be  sure  of  finding  her  burial  place  if  at 
any  time  it  was  necessary  to  seek  it.  ...  Such  was  the 
last  scene  in  the  career  of  this  luxurious  and  pleasure- 
loving  creature !  .  .  .  Thus  had  that  body  gone  to  disso- 
lution in  an  unknown  hole  in  the  ground  like  any  aban- 
doned beast  of  burden!  .  .  . 

"She  was  good,"  said  her  defender,  "and  yet  at  the 
same  time,  she  was  a  criminal.  Her  education  was  to 
blame.  Poor  woman !  .  .  .  They  had  brought  her  up  to 
live  in  riches,  and  riches  had  always  fled  before  her." 

Then  in  his  last  lines  the  old  mmtre  said  with 
melancholy,  "She  died  thinking  of  you  and  a  little  of 
me.  .  .  .  We  have  been  the  last  men  of  her  existence." 

This  reading  left  Ulysses  in  a  mournful  state  of 
stupefaction.  Freya  was  no  longer  living!  ...  He  was 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        497 

no  longer  running  the  danger  of  seeing  her  appear  on 
his  ship  at  whatever  port  he  might  touch!  .  .  . 

The  duality  of  his  sentiments  again  surged  up  with 
violent  contradiction. 

"It  was  a  good  thing!"  said  the  sailor,  "how  many  men 
have  died  through  her  fault!  .  .  .  Her  execution  was 
inevitable.  The  sea  must  be  cleared  of  such  bandits." 

And  at  the  same  time  the  remembrance  of  the  delights 
of  Naples,  of  that  long  imprisonment  in  a  harem  per- 
vaded with  unlimited  sensuousness  was  reborn  in  his 
mind.  He  saw  her  in  all  the  majesty  of  her  marvelous 
body,  just  as  when  she  was  dancing  or  leaping  from  side 
to  side  of  the  old  salon.  And  now  this  form,  molded 
by  nature  in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  was  no  longer  in 
existence.  ...  It  was  nothing  but  a  mass  of  liquid  flesh 
and  pestilent  pulp!  .  .  . 

He  recalled  her  kiss,  that  kiss  that  had  so  electrified 
him,  making  him  sink  down  and  down  through  an  ocean 
of  ecstasy,  like  a  castaway,  content  with  his  fate.  .  .  . 
And  he  would  never  know  her  more!  .  .  .  And  her 
mouth,  with  its  perfume  of  cinnamon  and  incense,  of 
Asiatic  forests  haunted  with  sensuousness  and  intrigue, 
was  now  .  .  .  !  Ah,  misery ! 

Suddenly  he  saw  the  profile  of  the  dead  woman  with 
one  eye  turned  toward  him,  graciously  and  malignly, 
just  as  the  "eye  of  the  morning"  must  have  looked  at 
its  mistress  while  uncoiling  her  mysterious  dances  in  her 
Asiatic  dwelling. 

Ulysses  concentrated  his  attention  on  the  Phantasm's 
pallid  brow  touched  by  the  silky  caress  of  her  curls. 
There  he  had  placed  his  best  kisses,  kisses  of  tenderness 
and  gratitude.  .  .  .  But  the  smooth  skin  that  had 
appeared  made  of  petals  of  the  camellia  was  growing 
dark  before  his  eyes.  It  became  a  d#rk  green  and  was 
oozing  with  blood.  .  .  .  Thus  he  had  seen  her  that  other 


498  MARE  NOSTRUM 

time.  .  .  .  And  he  recalled  with  remorse  his  blow  in 
Barcelona.  .  .  .  Then  it  opened,  forming  a  deep  hole, 
angular  in  shape  like  a  star.  Now  it  was  the  mark  of  the 
gunshot  wound,  the  coup  de  grace  that  brought  the  death- 
agony  of  the  executed  girl  to  its  end. 

Poor  Freya,  implacable  warrior,  unnerved  by  the 
battle  of  the  sexes!  .  .  .  She  had  passed  her  existence 
hating  men  yet  needing  them  in  order  to  live, — doing 
them  all  the  harm  possible  and  receiving  it  from  them  in 
sad  reciprocity  until  finally  she  had  perished  at  their 
hands. 

It  could  not  end  in  any  other  way.  A  masculine  hand 
had  opened  the  orifice  through  which  was  escaping  the 
last  bubble  of  her  existence.  .  .  .  And  the  horrified 
captain,  poring  over  her  sad  profile  with  its  purpling 
temple,  thought  that  he  never  would  be  able  to  blot  that 
ghastly  vision  from  his  memory.  The  phantasm  would 
diminish,  becoming  invisible  in  order  to  deceive  him,  but 
would  surely  come  forth  again  in  all  his  hours  of  pensive 
solitude ;  it  was  going  to  embitter  his  nights  on  watch,  to 
follow  him  through  the  years  like  remorse. 

Fortunately  the  exactions  of  real  life  kept  repelling 
these  sad  memories. 

"It  was  a  good  thing  she  was  shot !"  affirmed  authori- 
tatively within  him  the  energetic  official  accustomed  to 
command  men.  "What  would  you  have  done  in  forming 
a  part  of  the  tribunal  that  condemned  her?  .  .  .  Just 
what  the  others  did.  Think  of  those  who  have  died 
through  her  deviltry!  .  .  .  Remember  what  Toni  said!" 

A  letter  from  his  former  mate,  received  in  the  same 
mail  with  the  one  from  Freya's  defender,  spoke  of  the 
abominations  that  submarine  aggression  was  committing 
in  the  Mediterranean. 

News  of  some  of  the  crimes  was  beginning  to  be 
received  from  shipwrecked  sailors  who  had  succeeded  in 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        499 

reaching  the  coast  after  long  hours  of  struggle,  or  when 
picked  up  by  other  boats.  The  most  of  the  victims, 
however,  would  remain  forever  unknown  in  the  mystery 
of  the  waves.  Torpedoed  boats  had  gone  to  the  bottom 
with  their  crews  and  passengers,  "without  leaving  any 
trace,"  and  only  months  afterwards  a  part  of  the  tragedy 
had  become  evident  when  the  surge  flung  up  on  the  coast 
numberless  bodies  impossible  of  identification,  without 
even  a  recognizable  human  face. 

Almost  every  week  Toni  contemplated  some  of  these 
funereal  gifts  of  the  sea.  At  daybreak  the  fishermen 
used  to  find  corpses  tossed  on  the  beach  where  the 
water  swept  the  sand,  resting  there  a  few  moments  on  the 
moist  ground,  only  to  be  snatched  back  again  by  another 
and  stronger  wave.  Finally  their  backs  had  become 
imbedded  on  land,  holding  them  motionless — while,  from 
their  clothing  and  their  flesh,  swarms  of  little  fishes 
came  forth  fleeing  back  to  the  sea  in  search  of  new  pas- 
tures. The  revenue  guards  had  discovered  among  the 
rocks  mutilated  bodies  in  tragic  positions,  with  glassy 
eyes  protruding  from  their  sockets. 

Many  of  them  were  recognized  as  soldiers  by  the  tatters 
that  revealed  an  old  uniform,  or  the  metal  identification 
tags  on  their  wrists.  The  shore  folks  were  always 
talking  of  a  transport  that  had  been  torpedoed  coming 
from  Algiers.  .  .  .  And  mixed  with  the  men,  they  were 
constantly  finding  bodies  of  women  so  disfigured  that  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  judge  of  their  age:  mothers 
who  had  their  arms  arched  as  though  putting  forth  their 
utmost  efforts  to  guard  the  babe  that  had  disappeared. 
Many  whose  virginal  modesty  had  been  violated  by  the 
sea,  showed  naked  limbs  swollen  and  greenish,  with  deep 
bites  from  flesh-eating  fishes.  The  tide  had  even  tossed 
ashore  the  headless  body  of  a  child  a  few  years  old. 

It  was  more  horrible,  according  to  Toni,  to  contem- 


500  MARE  NOSTRUM 

plate  this  spectacle  from  land  than  when  in  a  boat.  Those 
on  ships  are  not  able  to  see  the  ultimate  consequences  of 
the  torpedoings  as  vividly  as  do  those  who  live  on  the 
shore,  receiving  as  a  gift  of  the  waves  this  continual 
consignment  of  victims. 

The  pilot  had  ended  his  letter  with  his  usual  suppli- 
cations : — "Why  do  you  persist  in  following  the  sea  ?  .  .  . 
You  want  a  vengeance  that  is  impossible.  You  are  one 
man,  and  your  enemies  are  millions.  .  .  .  You  are  going 
to  die  if  you  persist  in  disregarding  them.  You  already 
know  that  they  have  been  hunting  you  for  a  long  time. 
And  you  will  not  always  succeed  in  eluding  their  clutches. 
Remember  what  the  people  say,  'He  who  courts 

danger !'     Give  up  the  sea;  return  to  your  wife  or 

come  to  us.  Such  a  rich  life  as  you  might  lead 
ashore!  .  .  ." 

For  a  few  hours  Ferragut  was  of  Toni's  opinion. 
His  reckless  undertaking  was  bound  to  come  to  a  bad  end. 
His  enemies  knew  him,  were  lying  in  wait  for  him,  and 
were  many  arrayed  against  one  who  was  living  alone  on 
his  ship  with  a  crew  of  men  of  a  different  nationality. 
Aside  from  the  few  who  had  always  loved  him,  nobody 
would  lament  his  death.  He  did  not  belong  to  any  of  the 
nations  at  war;  he  was  a  species  of  privateer  bound  not 
to  begin  an  attack.  He  was  even  less, — an  officer 
carrying  supplies  under  the  protection  of  a  neutral  flag. 
This  flag  was  not  deceiving  anybody.  His  enemies  knew 
the  ship,  seeking  for  it  with  more  determination  than  if 
he  were  with  the  Allied  fleets.  Even  in  his  own  country, 
there  were  many  people  in  sympathy  with  the  German 
Empire  who  would  celebrate  joyously  the  disappearance 
of  the  Mare  Nostrum  and  its  captain. 

Freya's  death  had  depressed  his  spirits  more  than  he 
had  imagined  possible.  He  had  gloomy  presentiments; 
perhaps  his  next  journey  might  be  his  last. 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!         501 

"You  are  going  to  die !"  cried  an  anguished  voice  in  his 
brain.  "You'll  die  very  soon  if  you  do  not  retire  from 
the  sea." 

And  to  Ferragut  the  queerest  thing  about  the  warning 
was  that  this  counselor  had  the  voice  of  the  one  who  had 
always  egged  him  on  to  foolish  adventures, — the  one  that 
had  hurled  him  into  danger  for  the  mere  pleasure  of 
discounting  it,  the  one  that  had  made  him  follow  Freya 
even  after  knowing  her  vile  profession. 

On  the  other  hand  the  voice  of  prudence,  always 
cautious  and  temperate,  was  now  showing  an  heroic 
tranquillity,  speaking  like  a  man  of  peace  who  considers 
his  obligations  superior  to  his  life. 

"Be  calm,  Ferragut;  you  have  sold  your  person  with 
your  boat,  and  they  have  given  you  millions  for  it.  You 
must  carry  through  what  you  have  promised  even  though 
it  may  send  you  out  of  existence.  .  .  .  The  Mare 
Nostrum  cannot  sail  without  a  Spanish  captain.  If  you 
abandon  it,  you  will  have  to  find  another  captain.  You 
will  run  away  through  fear  and  put  in  your  place  a  man 
who  has  to  face  death  in  order  to  maintain  his  family. 
Glorious  achievement,  that!  .  .  .  while  you  would  be 
on  land,  rich  and  safe !  .  .  .  And  what  are  you  going  to 
do  on  land,  you  coward?" 

His  egoism  hardly  knew  how  to  reply  to  such  a  ques- 
tion. He  recalled  with  antipathy  his  bourgeois  existence 
over  there  in  Barcelona,  before  buying  the  steamer.  He 
was  a  man  of  action  and  could  live  only  when  occupied  in 
risky  enterprises. 

He  would  be  bored  to  death  on  land  and  at  the 
same  time  would  be  considered  belittled,  degraded,  like 
one  who  comes  down  to  an  inferior  grade  in  a  country 
of  hierarchies.  The  captain  of  a  romantic,  adventurous 
life  would  be  converted  into  a  real. estate  proprietor, 
knowing  no  other  struggles  than  those  which  he  might 


502  MARE  NOSTRUM 

sustain  with  his  tenants.  Perhaps,  in  order  to  avoid  a 
commonplace  existence,  he  might  invest  his  capital  in 
navigation,  the  only  business  that  he  knew  well.  He 
might  become  a  ship-owner  acquiring  new  vessels  and, 
little  by  little,  because  of  the  necessity  of  keeping  a  sharp 
watch  over  them,  would  eventually  renew  his  voy- 
ages. .  .  .  Well,  then,  why  should  he  abandon  the  Mare 
Nostrum? 

Upon  asking  himself  anxiously  what  his  life  had  so 
far  amounted  to,  he  underwent  a  profound  moral  rev- 
olution. 

All  his  former  existence  appeared  to  him  like  a  desert. 
He  had  lived  without  knowing  why  nor  wherefore, 
challenging  countless  dangers  and  adventures  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  coming  out  victorious.  Neither  did  he 
know  with  certainty  what  he  had  wanted  until  then.  If  it 
was  money,  it  had  flowed  into  his  hands  in  the  last 
months  with  overwhelming  abundance.  .  .  .  He  had  it 
to  spare  and  it  had  not  made  him  happy.  As  to  pro- 
fessional glory,  he  could  not  desire  anything  greater  than 
he  already  had.  His  name  was  celebrated  all  over  the 
Spanish  Mediterranean.  Even  the  rudest  and  most  un- 
governable of  sailors  would  admit  his  exceptional  ability. 

"Love  remained!  .  .  ."  But  Ferragnt  made  a  wry 
face  when  thinking  of  that.  He  had  known  it  and  did 
not  wish  to  meet  it  again.  The  gentle  love  of  a  good 
companion,  capable  of  surrounding  the  latter  part  of  his 
existence  with  congenial  comfort,  he  had  just  lost 
forever.  The  other,  impassioned,  fantastic,  voluptuous, 
giving  to  life  the  crude  interest  of  conflicts  and  contrasts, 
had  left  him  with  no  desire  of  recommencing  it. 

Paternity,  stronger  and  more  enduring  than  love, 
might  have  filled  the  rest  of  his  days  had  his  son  not 
died.  .  .  .  There  only  remained  vengeance,  the  savage 
task  of  returning  evil  to  those  who  had  done  him  so 


AMPHITRITE !  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE !        503 

much  evil.  But  he  was  so  powerless  to  struggle  against 
all  of  them !  .  .  .  This  final  act  appeared  to  be  turning  out 
so  small  and  selfish  in  comparison  with  that  other  patriotic 
enthusiasm  which  was  now  dragging  to  sacrifice  such 
great  masses  of  men !  .  .  . 

While  he  was  thinking  it  all  over,  a  phrase  which  he 
had  somewhere  heard — formed  perhaps  from  the  residu- 
um of  old  readings — began  to  chant  in  his  brain :  "A  life 
without  ideals  is  not  worth  the  trouble  of  living." 

Ferragut  mutely  assented.  It  was  true:  in  order  to 
live,  an  ideal  is  necessary.  But  where  could  he  find 
it?  ... 

Suddenly,  in  his  mind's  eye,  he  saw  Toni, — just  as 
when  he  used  to  try  to  express  his  confused  thoughts. 
With  all  his  credulity  and  simplicity,  his  captain  now 
considered  his  humble  mate  his  superior.  In  his  own 
way  Toni  had  his  ideal :  he  was  concerned  with  something 
besides  his  own  selfishness.  He  wished  for  other  men 
what  he  considered  good  for  himself,  and  he  defended  his 
convictions  with  the  mystical  enthusiasm  of  all  those 
historic  personages  who  have  tried  to  impose  a  belief ; — 
with  the  faith  of  the  warriors  of  the  Cross  and  those  of 
the  Prophet,  with  the  tenacity  of  the  Inquisition  and  of 
the  Jacobins. 

He,  a  man  of  reason,  had  only  known  how  to  ridicule 
the  generous  and  disinterested  enthusiasms  of  other 
men,  detecting  at  once  their  weak  points  and  lack  of 
adaptation  to  the  reality  of  the  moment.  .  .  .  What  right 
had  he  to  laugh  at  his  mate  who  was  a  believer, 
dreaming,  with  the  pure-mindedness  of  a  child,  of  a  free 
and  happy  humanity?  .  .  .  Aside  from  his  stupid  jeers, 
what  could  he  oppose  to  that  faith?  .  .  . 

Life  began  to  appear  to  him  under  a  new  light,  as 
something  serious  and  mysterious  that  was  exacting  a 
bridge  toll,  a  tribute  of  courage  from  all  the  beings  who 


504  MARE  NOSTRUM 

pass    over    it,    leaving    the    cradle    behind    them    and 
having  the  grave  as  a  final  resting-place. 

It  did  not  matter  at  all  that  their  ideals  might  appear 
false.  Where  is  the  truth,  the  only  and  genuine  truth? 
.  .  .  Who  is  there  that  can  demonstrate  that  he  exists, 
and  is  not  an  illusion  ?  .  .  . 

The  necessary  thing  was  to  believe  in  something,  to 
have  hope.  The  multitudes  had  never  been  touched  by 
impulses  of  argument  and  criticism.  They  had  only  gone 
forward  when  some  one  had  caused  hopes  and  halluci- 
nations to  be  born  in  their  souls.  Philosophers  might 
vainly  seek  the  truth  by  the  light  of  logic,  but  the  rest  of 
mankind  would  always  prefer  the  chimerical  ideals  that 
become  transformed  into  powerful  motives  of  action. 

All  religions  were  becoming  beautifully  less  upon 
being  subjected  to  cold  examination.  Yet,  nevertheless, 
they  were  producing  saints  and  martyrs,  true  super-men 
of  morality.  All  revolutions  had  proved  imperfect  and 
ineffectual  when  submitted  to  scientific  revision.  Yet, 
nothwithstanding,  they  had  brought  forth  the  greatest 
individual  heroes,  the  most  astonishing  collective  move- 
ments of  history. 

"To  believe !  ...  To  dream !"  a  mysterious  voice  kept 
chanting  in  his  brain.  "To  have  an  ideal !  .  .  ." 

He  did  not  fancy  living,  like  the  mummies  of  the  great 
Pharaohs,  in  a  luxurious  tomb,  anointed  with  perfume 
and  surrounded  with  everything  necessary  for  nourish- 
ment and  sleep.  To  be  born,  to  grow  up,  to  reproduce 
oneself  was  not  enough  to  form  a  history: — all  the 
animals  do  the  same.  Man  ought  to  add  something 
more  which  he  alone  possesses, — the  faculty  of  framing 
a  future.  .  .  .  To  dream!  To  the  heritage  of  idealism 
left  by  our  forebears  should  be  added  a  new  ideal,  or  the 
power  of  bringing  it  about. 

Ferragut  realized  that  in  normal  times,  he  would  have 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        505 

gone  to  his  death  just  as  he  had  lived,  continuing  a 
monotonous  and  uniform  existence.  Now  the  violent 
changes  around  him  were  resuscitating  the  dormant 
personalities  which  we  all  carry  within  us  as  souvenirs  of 
our  ancestors,  revolving  around  a  central  and  keen  per- 
sonality the  only  one  that  has  existed  until  then. 

The  world  was  in  a  state  of  war.  The  men  of  Middle 
Europe  were  clashing  with  the  other  half  on  the  battle- 
fields. Both  sides  had  a  mystic  ideal,  affirming  it  with 
violence  and  slaughter  just  as  the  multitudes  have 
always  done  when  moved  by  religious  or  revolutionary 
certainty  accepted  as  the  only  truth.  .  .  . 

But  the  sailor  recognized  a  profound  difference  in  the 
two  masses  struggling  at  the  present  day.  One  was 
placing  its  ideal  in  the  past,  wishing  to  rejuvenate  the 
sovereignty  of  Force,  the  divinity  of  war,  and  adapt  it  to 
actual  life.  The  other  throng  was  preparing  for  the 
future,  dreaming  of  a  world  of  free  democracy,  of 
nations  at  peace,  tolerant  and  without  jealousy. 

Upon  adjusting  himself  to  this  new  atmosphere, 
Ferragut  began  to  feel  within  him  ideas  and  aspirations 
that  were,  perhaps,  an  ancestral  legacy.  He  fancied  he 
could  hear  his  uncle,  the  Triton,  describing  the 
impact  of  the  men  of  the  North  upon  the  men  of  the 
South  when  trying  to  make  themselves  masters  of  the 
blue  mantle  of  Amphitrite.  He  was  a  Mediterranean, 
but  just  because  the  country  in  which  he  had  been  born 
happened  to  be  uninterested  in  the  fate  of  the  world, 
he  was  not  going  to  remain  indifferent. 

He  ought  to  continue  just  where  he  was.  Whatever 
Toni  had  told  him  of  Latinism  and  Mediterranean  civil- 
ization, he  now  accepted  as  great  truths.  Perhaps  they 
might  not  be  exact  when  examined  in  the  light  of  pure 
reason,  but  they  were  worth  as  much  as  the  assurances 
of  the  others. 


5o6  MARE  NOSTRUM 

He  was  going  to  continue  his  life  of  navigation  with 
new  enthusiasm.  He  had  faith,  the  ideals,  the  illusions 
that  heroes  are  made  of.  While  the  war  lasted  he 
would  assist  in  his  own  way,  acting  as  an  auxiliary  to 
those  who  were  fighting,  transporting  all  that  was 
necessary  to  the  struggle.  He  began  to  look  with  greater 
respect  upon  the  sailors  obedient  to  his  orders,  simple 
folk  who  had  given  their  blood  without  fine  phrases  and 
without  arguments. 

When  peace  should  come  he  would  not,  therefore, 
retire  from  the  sea.  There  would  still  be  much  to  be 
done.  Then  would  begin  the  commercial  war,  the  sharp 
rivalry  to  conquer  the  markets  of  the  younger  nations 
of  America.  Audacious  and  enormous  plans  were  out- 
lining themselves  in  his  brain.  In  this  war  he  might 
perhaps  become  a  leader.  He  dreamed  of  the  creation 
of  a  fleet  of  steamers  that  might  reach  even  to  the  coast 
of  the  Pacific;  he  wished  to  contribute  his  means  to  the 
victorious  re-birth  of  the  race  which  had  discovered 
the  greater  part  of  the  planet. 

His  new  faith  made  him  more  friendly  with  the  ship's 
cook,  feeling  the  attraction  of  his  invincible  illusions. 
From  time  to  time  he  would  amuse  himself  consulting 
the  old  fellow  as  to  the  future  fate  of  the  steamer;  he 
wished  to  know  if  the  submarines  were  causing  him  ?  ../ 
fear. 

"There's  nothing  to  worry  about,"  affirmed  Caragol. 
"We  have  good  protectors.  Whoever  presents  himself 
before  us  is  lost." 

And  he  showed  his  captain  the  religious  engravings  and 
postal  cards  which  he  had  tacked  on  the  Walls  of  the 
galley. 

One  morning  Ferragut  received  his  sailing  orders. 
For  the  moment  they  were  going  to  Gibraltar,  to  pick  up 
the  cargo  of  a  steamer  that  had  not  been  able  to  continue 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        507 

its  voyage.  From  the  strait  they  might  turn  their  course 
to  Salonica  once  more. 

The  captain  of  the  Mare  Nostrum  had  never  under- 
taken a  journey  with  so  much  joy.  He  believed  that  he 
was  going  to  leave  on  land  forever  the  recollection  of  that 
executed  woman  whose  corpse  he  was  seeing  so  many 
nights  in  his  dreams.  From  all  the  past,  the  only  thing 
that  he  wished  to  transplant  to  his  new  existence  was  the 
image  of  his  son.  Henceforth  he  was  going  to  live, 
concentrating  all  his  enthusiasm  and  ideals  on  the  mission 
which  he  had  imposed  on  himself. 

He  took  the  boat  directly  from  Marseilles  to  the  Cape 
of  San  Antonio  far  from  the  coast,  keeping  to  the  mid- 
Mediterranean,  without  passing  the  Gulf  of  Lyons.  One 
twilight  evening  the  crew  saw  some  bluish  mountains  in 
the  hazy  distance, — the  island  of  Mallorca.  During  the 
night  the  lighthouses  of  Ibiza  and  Formentera  slipped 
past  the  dark  horizon.  When  the  sun  arose  a  vertical 
spot  of  rose  color  like  a  tongue  of  flame,  appeared  above 
the  sea  line.  It  was  the  high  mountain  of  Mongo,  the 
Ferrarian  promontory  of  the  ancients.  At  the  foot  of  its 
abrupt  steeps  was  the  village  of  Ulysses*  grandparents, 
the  house  in  which  he  had  passed  the  best  part  of  his 
childhood.  Thus  it  must  have  looked  in  the  distance  to 
the  Greeks  of  Massalia,  exploring  the  desert  Mediter- 
ranean in  ships  which  were  leaping  the  foam  like  wooden 
horses. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day,  the  Mare  Nostrum  sailed  very 
close  to  the  shore.  The  captain  knew  this  sea  as  though 
it  were  a  lake  on  his  own  property.  He  took  the  steamer 
through  shallow  depths,  seeing  the  reefs  so  near  to  the 
surface  that  it  appeared  almost  a  miracle  that  the  boat 
did  not  crash  upon  them.  Sometimes  the  space  between 
the  keel  and  the  sunken  rocks  was  hardly  two  yards  wide. 
Then  the  gilded  water  would  take  on  a  dark  tone  and  the 


508  MARE  NOSTRUM 

steamer  would  continue  its  advance  over  the  greater 
depths. 

Along  the  shore,  the  autumn  sun  was  reddening  the 
yellowing  mountains,  now  dry  and  fragrant,  covered 
with  pasturage  of  strong  odor  which  could  be  smelt  at 
great  distances.  In  all  the  windings  of  the  coast, — little 
coves,  beds  of  dry  torrents  or  gorges  between  two 
peaks — were  visible  white  groups  of  hamlets. 

Ferragut  contemplated  carefully  the  native  land  of  his 
grandparents.  Toni  must  be  there  now:  perhaps  from 
the  door  of  his  dwelling  he  was  seeing  them  pass  by; 
perhaps  he  was  recognizing  the  ship  with  surprise  and 
emotion. 

A  French  official,  motionless  near  Ulysses  on  the 
bridge,  was  admiring  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  single  cloud  was  in  the  sky.  All  was  blue  above 
and  below,  with  no  variation  except  where  the  bands  of 
foam  were  combing  themselves  on  the  jutting  points  of 
the  coast,  and  the  restless  gold  of  the  sunlight  was 
forming  a  broad  roadway  over  the  waters.  A  flock  of 
dolphins  frisked  around  the  boat  like  a  cortege  of  oceanic 
divinities. 

"If  the  sea  were  always  like  this!"  exclaimed  the 
captain,  "what  delight  to  be  a  sailor!" 

The  crew  could  see  the  people  on  land  running  together 
and  forming  groups,  attracted  by  the  novelty  of  a  steamer 
that  was  passing  within  reach  of  their  voice.  On  each 
of  the  jutting  points  of  the  shore  was  a  low  and  ruddy 
tower, — last  vestige  of  the  thousand-year  war  of  the 
Mediterranean.  Accustomed  to  the  rugged  shores  of 
the  ocean  and  its  eternal  surf,  the  Breton  sailors  were 
marveling  at  this  easy  navigation,  almost  touching  the 
coast  whose  inhabitants  looked  like  a  swarm  of  bees. 
Had  the  boat  been  directed  by  another  captain,  so  close  a 
journey  would  have  resulted  most  disastrously:  but 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        509 

Ferragut  was  laughing,  throwing  out  gloomy  hints  to  the 
officers  who  were  on  the  bridge,  merely  to  accentuate  his 
professional  confidence.  He  pointed  out  the  rocks  hidden 
in  the  deeps.  Here  an  Italian  liner  that  was  going  ta 
Buenos  Ayres  had  been  lost.  ...  A  little  further  on,  a 
swift  four-masted  sailboat  had  run  aground,  losing  its 
cargo.  .  .  .  He  could  tell  by  the  fraction  of  an  inch  the 
amount  of  water  permissible  between  the  treacherous 
rocks  and  the  keel  of  his  boat. 

He  usually  sought  the  roughest  waters  by  preference, 
but  they  were  in  the  danger-zone  of  the  Mediterranean 
where  the  German  submarines  were  lying  in  wait  for  the 
French  and  English  convoys  navigating  in  the  shelter  of 
the  Spanish  coast.  The  obstacles  of  the  submerged 
coast  were  for  him  now  the  best  defense  against  invisible 
attacks. 

Behind  him,  the  Ferrarian  promontory  was  growing 
more  and  more  shadowy,  becoming  a  mere  blur  on  the 
horizon.  By  nightfall  the  Mare  Nostrum  was  in  front  of 
Cape  Palos  and  he  had  to  sail  in  the  outer  waters  in  order 
to  double  it,  leaving  Cartagena  in  the  distance.  From 
there,  he  turned  his  course  to  the  southwest,  to  the  cape 
where  the  Mediterranean  was  beginning  to  grow  narrow, 
forming  the  funnel  of  the  strait.  Soon  they  would  pass 
before  Almeria  and  Malaga,  reaching  Gibraltar  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

"Here  is  where  the  enemy  is  oftentimes  waiting,"  said 
Ferragut  to  one  of  the  officers.  "If  we  have  no  bad  luck 
before  night,  we  shall  have  safely  concluded  our  voyage." 

The  boat  had  withdrawn  from  the  shore  route,  and  it 
was  no  longer  possible  to  distinguish  the  lower  coast. 
Only  from  the  prow  could  be  seen  the  jutting  hump  of 
the  cape,  rising  up  like  an  island. 

Caragol  appeared  with  a  tray  on  which  were  smoking 
two  cups  of  coffee.  He  would  not  yield  to  any  cabin- 


MARE  NOSTRUM 

boy  the  honor  of  serving  the  captain  when  on  the 
bridge. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  trip?"  asked  Ferragut 
•gayly,  before  drinking.  "Shall  we  arrive  in  good  con- 
dition? .  .  ." 

The  cook  made  as  scornful  a  gesture  as  though  the 
'Germans  could  see  him. 

"Nothing  will  befall  us;  I  am  sure  of  that.  .  .  .  We 
have  One  who  is  watching  over  us,  and  ..." 

He  was  suddenly  interrupted  in  his  affirmations.  The 
tray  leaped  from  his  hands  and  he  went  staggering  about 
like  a  drunken  man,  even  banging  his  abdomen  against  the 
balustrade  of  the  bridge.  "Cristo  del  Grao!  .  .  ." 

The  cup  that  Ferragut  was  carrying  to  his  mouth  fell 
with  a  crash,  and  the  French  officer,  seated  on  a  bench, 
was  almost  thrown  on  his  knees.  The  helmsman  had  to 
clutch  the  wheel  with  a  jerk  of  surprise  and  terror. 

The  entire  ship  trembled  from  keel  to  masthead,  from 
'quarter-deck  to  forecastle,  with  a  deadly  shuddering  as 
though  invisible  claws  had  just  checked  it  at  full  speed. 

The  captain  tried  to  account  for  this  accident.  "We 
must  be  aground/'  he  said  to  himself,  "a  reef  that  I  did 
not  know,  a  shoal  not  marked  on  the  charts.  .  .  ." 

But  a  second  had  not  passed  before  something  else 
was  added  to  the  first  shock,  refuting  Ferragut's  sup- 
positions. The  blue  and  luminous  air  was  rent  with  the 
thud  of  a  thunderclap.  Near  the  prow,  appeared  a  col- 
umn of  smoke,  of  expanding  gases  of  yellowish  and  ful- 
minating steam  and,  coming  up  through  its  center  in  the 
form  of  a  fan,  a  spout  of  black  objects,  broken  wood, 
bits  of  metallic  plates  and  flaming  ropes  turning  to  ashes. 

Ulysses  was  no  longer  in  doubt.  They  must  have  just 
been  struck  by  a  torpedo.  His  anxious  look  scanned  the 
waters. 

"There !  .  .  .  There !"  he  said,  pointing  with  his  hand. 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        511 

His  keen  seaman's  eyes  had  just  discovered  the  light 
outline  of  a  periscope  that  nobody  else  was  able  to  see. 

He  ran  down  from  the  bridge  or  rather  he  slid  down 
the  midship  ladder,  running  toward  the  stern. 

"There!  .  .  .  There!'' 

The  three  gunners  were  near  the  cannon,  calm  and 
phlegmatic,  putting  a  hand  to  their  eyes,  in  order  to  see 
better  the  almost  invisible  speck  which  the  captain  was 
pointing  out. 

None  of  them  noticed  the  slant  that  the  deck  was 
slowly  beginning  to  take.  They  thrust  the  first  projectile 
into  the  breech  of  the  cannon  while  the  gunner  made  an 
effort  to  distinguish  that  small  black  cane  hardly  per- 
ceptible among  the  tossing  waves. 

Another  shock  as  rude  as  the  first  one!  Everything 
groaned  with  a  dying  shudder.  The  plates  were 
trembling  and  falling  apart,  losing  the  cohesion  that  had 
made  of  them  one  single  piece.  The  screws  and  rivets 
sprang  out,  moved  by  the  general  shaking-up.  A  second 
crater  had  opened  in  the  middle  of  the  ship,  this  time 
bearing  in  its  fan-shaped  explosion  the  limbs  of  human 
beings. 

The  captain  saw  that  further  resistance  was  useless. 
His  feet  warned  him  of  the  cataclysm  that  was  develop- 
ing beneath  them — the  liquid  water-spout  invading 
with  a  foamy  bellowing  the  space  between  keel  and  deck, 
destroying  the  metal  screens,  knocking  down  the  bulk- 
heads, upsetting  every  object,  dragging  them  forth  with 
all  the  violence  of  an  inundation,  with  the  ramming  force 
of  a  breaking  dyke.  The  hold  was  rapidly  becoming 
converted  into  a  watery  and  leaden  coffin  fast  going 
to  the  bottom. 

The  aft  gun  hurled  its  first  shot.  To  Ferragut  its 
report  seemed  mere  irony.  No  one  knew  as  he  did  the 
ship's  desperate  condition. 


512  MARE  NOSTRUM 

"To  the  life  boats  P  he  shouted.  "Every  one  to  the 
boats  P 

The  steamer  was  tipping  up  in  an  alarming  way  as 
the  men  calmly  obeyed  his  orders  without  losing  their 
self-control. 

A  desperate  vibration  was  jarring  the  deck.  It  was 
the  engines  that  were  sending  out  death-rattles  at  the 
same  time  that  a  torrent  of  steam  as  thick  as  ink  was 
pouring  from  the  smokestack.  The  firemen  were  coming 
up  to  the  light  with  eyes  swollen  with  the  terror  stamp- 
ing their  blackened  faces.  The  inundation  had  begun 
to  invade  their  dominions,  breaking  their  steel  com- 
partments. 

"To  the  boats !  .  .  .  Lower  the  life  boats  I" 

The  captain  repeated  his  shouts  of  command,  anxious 
to  see  the  crew  embark,  without  thinking  for  one 
moment  of  his  own  safety. 

It  never  even  occurred  to  him  that  his  fate  might  be 
different  from  that  of  his  ship.  Besides,  hidden  in  the 
sea,  was  the  enemy  who  would  soon  break  the  surface  to 
survey  its  handiwork.  .  .  .  Perhaps  they  might  hunt  for 
Captain  Ferragut  among  the  boatloads  of  survivors,  wish- 
ing to  bear  him  off  as  their  triumphant  booty.  .  .  . 
No,  he  would  far  rather  give  up  his  life !  .  .  . 

The  seamen  had  unfastened  the  life  boats  and  were 
beginning  to  lower  them,  when  something  brutal  suddenly 
occurred  with  the  annihilating  rapidity  of  a  cataclysm  of 
Nature. 

There  sounded  a  great  explosion  as  though  the  world 
had  gone  to  pieces,  and  Ferragut  felt  the  floor  vanishing 
from  beneath  his  feet.  He  looked  around  him.  The 
prow  no  longer  existed;  it  had  disappeared  under  the 
water,  and  a  bellowing  wave  was  rolling  over  the  deck 
crushing  everything  beneath  its  roller  of  foam.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  poop  was  climbing  higher  and  higher, 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        513 

becoming  almost  vertical.  It  was  soon  a  cliff,  a  moun- 
tain steep,  on  whose  peak  the  white  flagstaff  was  stick- 
ing up  like  a  weather-vane. 

In  order  not  to  fall  he  had  to  grasp  a  rope,  a  bit  of 
wood,  any  fixed  object.  But  the  effort  was  useless.  He 
felt  himself  dragged  down,  overturned,  lashed  about  in  a 
moaning  and  whirling  darkness.  A  deadly  chill  para- 
lyzed his  limbs.  His  closed  eyes  saw  a  red  heaven,  a 
sky  of  blood  with  black  stars.  His  ear  drums  were 
buzzing  with  a  roaring  glu-glu,  while  his  body  was  turn- 
ing somersaults  through  the  darkness.  His  confused 
brain  imagined  that  an  infinitely  deep  hole  had  opened 
in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  that  all  the  waters  of  the  ocean 
were  passing  through  it,  forming  a  gigantic  vortex,  and 
that  he  was  swirling  in  the  center  of  this  revolving 
tempest. 

"I  am  going  to  die !  ...  I  am  already  dead  I"  said  his 
thoughts. 

And  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  was  resigned  to  death, 
he  moved  his  legs  desperately,  wishing  to  bring  himself 
up  to  the  yielding,  treacherous  surface.  Instead  of  con- 
tinuing to  descend,  he  noticed  that  he  was  going  up,  and 
in  a  little  while  he  was  able  to  open  his  eyes  and  to 
breathe,  judging  from  the  atmospheric  contact  that  he  had 
reached  the  top. 

He  was  not  sure  of  the  length  of  time  he  had  passed 
in  the  abyss, — surely  not  more  than  a  few  minutes,  since 
his  breathing  capacity  as  a  swimmer  could  not  exceed 
that  limit.  .  .  .  He,  therefore,  experienced  great  aston- 
ishment upon  discovering  the  tremendous  changes  which 
had  taken  place  in  so  short  a  parenthesis. 

He  thought  it  was  already  night.  Perhaps  in  the  upper 
strata  of  the  atmosphere  were  still  shining  the  last  rays  of 
the  sun,  but  at  the  water's  level,  there  was  no  more  than 
a  twilight  gray,  like  the  dim  glimmer  of  a  cellar. 


514  MARE  NOSTRUM 

The  almost  even  surface  seen  a  few  minutes  before 
from  the  height  of  the  bridge  was  now  moved  by  broad 
swells  that  plunged  him  in  momentary  darkness.  Each 
one  of  these  appeared  a  hillock  interposed  before  his 
eyes,  leaving  free  only  a  few  yards  of  space.  When  he 
was  raised  upon  their  crests  he  could  take  in  with  rapid 
vision  the  solitary  sea  that  lacked  the  gallant  mass  of  the 
ship,  astir  with  dark  objects.  These  objects  were  slipping 
inertly  by  or  moving  along,  waving  pairs  of  black  anten- 
nae. Perhaps  they  were  imploring  help,  but  the  wet  desert 
was  absorbing  the  most  furious  cries,  converting  them 
into  distant  bleating. 

Of  the  Mare1  Nostrum  there  was  no  longer  visible 
either  the  mouth  of  the  smokestack  nor  the  point  of  a 
mast;  the  abyss  had  swallowed  it  all.  .  .  .  Ferragut  be- 
gan to  doubt  if  his  ship  had  ever  really  existed. 

He  swam  toward  a  plank  that  came  floating  near,  rest- 
ing his  arms  upon  it.  He  used  to  be  able  to  remain  en- 
tire hours  in  the  sea,  when  naked  and  within  sight  of  the 
coast,  with  the  assurance  of  returning  to  terra  firma 
whenever  he  might  wish.  .  .  .  But  now  he  had  to  keep 
himself  up,  completely  dressed ;  his  shoes  were  tugging  at 
him  with  a  constantly  increasing  force  as  though  made 
of  iron  .  .  .  and  water  on  all  sides !  Not  a  boat  on  the 
horizon  that  could  come  to  his  aid !  .  .  .  The  wireless  op- 
erator, surprised  by  the  swiftness  of  the  catastrophe,  had 
not  been  able  to  send  out  the  S.  O.  S. 

He  also  had  to  defend  himself  from  the  debris  of  the 
shipwreck.  After  having  grasped  the  raft  as  his  last 
means  of  salvation,  he  had  to  avoid  the  floating  casks, 
rolling  toward  him  on  the  swelling  billows,  which  might 
send  him  to  the  bottom  with  one  of  their  blows. 

Suddenly  there  loomed  up  between  two  waves  a  spe- 
cies of  blind  monster  that  was  agitating  the  waters  furi- 
ously with  the  strokes  of  its  swimming.  Upon  coming 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!        515 

close  to  it,  he  saw  that  it  was  a  man ;  as  it  drifted  away, 
he  recognized  Uncle  Caragol. 

He  was  swimming  like  a  drunken  man  with  a  super- 
human force  which  made  half  of  his  body  come  out  of 
the  water  at  each  stroke.  He  was  looking  before  him 
as  though  he  could  see,  as  if  he  had  a  fixed  destination, 
without  hesitating  a  moment,  yet  going  further  out  to 
sea  when  he  imagined  that  he  was  heading  toward  the 
coast. 

"Padre  San  Vicente!"  he  moaned.  "Cristo  del 
Grao!  .  .  ." 

In  vain  the  captain  shouted.  The  cook  could  not  hear 
him,  and  continued  swimming  on  with  all  the  force  of  his 
faith,  repeating  his  pious  invocations  between  his  noisy 
snortings. 

A  cask  climbed  the  crest  of  a  wave,  rolling  down  on 
the  opposite  side.  The  head  of  the  blind  swimmer  came 
in  its  way.  ...  A  thudding  crash.  "Padre  San  Vi- 
cente! .  .  /'  And  Caragol  disappeared  with  bleeding 
head  and  a  mouth  full  of  salt. 

Ferragut  did  not  wish  to  imitate  that  kind  of  swim- 
ming. The  land  was  very  far  off  for  a  man's  arms;  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reach  it.  Not  a  single  one  of  the 
ship's  boats  had  remained  afloat.  .  .  .  His  only  hope,  a 
remote  and  whimsical  one,  was  that  some  vessel  might 
discover  the  shipwrecked  men  and  save  them. 

In  a  little  while  this  hope  was  almost  realized.  From 
the  crest  of  a  wave  he  could  see  a  black  bark,  long  and 
low,  without  smokestack  or  mast,  that  was  nosing 
slowly  among  the  debris.  He  recognized  a  subma- 
rine. The  dark  silhouettes  of  several  men  were  so 
plainly  visible  that  he  believed  he  heard  them  shout- 
ing,— 

"Ferragut!  .  .  .  Where  is  Captain  Ferragut?  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  no!  ...  Better  to  die!" 


516  MARE  NOSTRUM 

And  he  clung  to  his  raff,  hanging  his  head  as  though 
drowning.  Then  as  night  closed  down  upon  him  he 
heard  still  other  shouts,  but  these  were  cries  of  help, 
cries  of  anguish,  cries  of  death.  The  rescuers  were 
searching  for  him  only,  leaving  the  others  to  their  fate. 

He  lost  all  notion  of  time.  An  agonizing  cold  was 
paralyzing  his  entire  frame.  His  stiffened  and  swollen 
hands  were  loosening  from  the  raft  and  grasping  it 
again  only  by  a  supreme  effort  of  his  will. 

The  other  shipwrecked  men  had  taken  the  precaution 
to  put  on  their  life  preservers  when  the  ship  began  to 
sink.  Thanks  to  this  apparatus,  their  death  agony  was 
going  to  be  prolonged  a  few  hours  more.  Perhaps  if 
they  could  hold  out  until  daybreak,  they  might  be  dis- 
covered by  some  boat!  But  he!  ... 

Suddenly  he  remembered  the  Triton.  .  .  .  His  uncle 
also  had  died  in  the  sea ;  all  the  most  vigorous  members 
of  the  family  had  finally  perished  in  its  bosom.  For 
centuries  and  centuries  it  had  been  the  tomb  of  the  Fer- 
raguts ;  with  good  reason  they  had  called  it  "mare  nos- 
trum." 

He  fancied  that  the  currents  might  possibly  have 
dragged  his  uncle's  dead  body  from  the  other  promon- 
tory to  the  place  over  which  he  was  floating.  Perhaps 
he  might  be  now  beneath  his  feet.  ...  An  irresistible 
force  was  pulling  at  them ;  his  paralyzed  hands  loosened 
their  hold  on  the  wood. 

"Uncle!  .  .  .  Uncle!" 

In  his  thoughts  he  was  shrieking  to  his  relative  with 
the  timorous  plaint  of  the  little  fellow  taking  his  first 
swimming  lesson.  But  his  agonized  hands  again  en- 
countered the  cold  and  weak  support  of  the  raft  instead 
of  that  island  of  hard  muscles  crowned  with  a  hairy  and 
smiling  face. 

He  continued  his  tenacious  floating,  struggling  against 


AMPHITRITE!  .  .  .  AMPHITRITE!  517 

i 

the  drowsiness  that  was  urging  him  to  relax  from  his 
drifting  support  and  let  himself  go  to  the  bottom,  to 
sleep  ...  to  sleep  forever  1  His  shoes  and  clothing  were 
continuing  to  pull  and  tug  with  even  greater  force. 
They  became  an  undulating  shroud,  growing  heavier 
and  heavier,  surging  and  dragging  down  and  down  to  the 
uttermost  depths.  His  desperation  made  him  raise  his 
eyes  and  look  at  the  stars.  ...  So  high!  .  .  .  Only  to 
be  able  to  grasp  one  of  them,  as  his  hands  were  now 
clutching  the  wood !  .  .  . 

At  the  same  time  he  made  instinctively  a  movement 
of  repulsion.  His  head  had  sunk  in  the  water  without 
his  being  conscious  of  it.  A  bitter  liquid  was  beginning 
to  filter  through  his  mouth.  .  .  . 

He  made  a  mighty  effort  to  keep  himself  in  a  vertical 
position,  looking  again  at  the  sky,  still  black  as  ink,  and 
all  the  stars  as  red  as  drops  of  blood. 

Suddenly  he  felt  a  certain  consciousness  that  he  was 
not  alone,  and  he  closed  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Yes,  somebody 
was  near  him.  It  was  a  woman!  .  .  . 

It  was  a  woman  white  as  the  clouds,  white  as  the 
sail,  white  as  the  foam.  Her  sea-green  tresses  were 
adorned  with  pearls  and  phosphorescent  corals;  her 
proud  smile  was  that  of  a  goddess,  in  keeping  with  the 
majesty  of  her  diadem. 

She  stretched  her  pearly  arms  around  him,  pressing 
him  close  against  her  life-giving  and  eternally  virginal 
bosom.  A  dense  and  greenish  atmosphere  was  giving 
her  whiteness  a  reflection  like  that  of  the  light  of  the 
caves  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Her  pale  mouth  then  pressed  against  the  sailor's,  mak- 
ing him  feel  as  though  all  the  light  of  this  white  appari- 
tion had  liquefied  and  was  passing  into  his  body  by 
means  of  her  impelling  kiss. 

He  could  no  longer  see,  he  could  no  longer  speak. 


518  MARE  NOSTRUM 

His  eyes  had  closed,  never  to  open  again ;  a  bitter  river 
of  salt  was  flowing  down  his  throat. 

Nevertheless  he  continued  looking  at  her, — more  lumi- 
nous, pressed  closer  and  closer, — with  a  sad  expression 
of  love  in  his  glassy  eyes.  .  .  .  And  thus  he  went  down 
and  down  the  infinite  levels  of  the  abyss,  inert,  and 
without  volition,  while  a  voice  within  him  was  crying, 
as  though  just  recognizing  her: 

"Amphitrite!  .  .  .  Ampkitrite!" 


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